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Paul     Kelver 


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Paul    K  e 1 V  e  r 


By 

JEROME    K.   JEROME 


Author  of  *'  Second  Thoughts  of 

an   Idle  Fellow,"  "  Three 

Men  on  Wheels," 

etc. 


New  York 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1902 


Copyright,  1902, 
By  Jerome  K.  Jerome. 


Copyright,  1902, 
By  DoDD,  Mead  &  Company. 


First  Edition  published  September,  1902. 


CONTE 


PAGE 

Prologue li 

BOOK  I. 

CHAPTER 

I.     Paul,  Arrived  in  a  Strange  Land,  learns 
MANY  Things,  and  goes  to  meet  the 

Man  in  Grey 9 

II.     In  which  Paul  makes  Acquaintance  of 

THE  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth 29 

III.  How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door  of 

THE  Man  in  Grey 43 

IV.  Paul,  falling  in  with  a  Goodly  Company 

OF  Pilgrims,  learns  of  them  the  Road 

THAT  HE  must  TrAVEL,  AND   MeETS  THE 

Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks 61 

V.    In  which  there  Comes  by  One  bent  upon 

Pursuing  his  own  Way 'j'j 

VI.     Of  the  Shadow  that  came  between  the 
Man  in  Grey  and  the  Lady  of  the 

Love-lit  Eyes  92 

VII.     Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow 108 

VIII.     How  THE  Man  in  Grey  made  ready  for 

HIS  Going 126 

IX.     Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul 148 

X.     In  which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked,  and  cast 

into  Deep  Waters 167 


953909 


iv  Contents. 

BOOK  11. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Describes  the  Desert  Island  to  which 

Paul  was  Drifted 190 

II.  Paul,  Escaping  from  his  Solitude,  Falls 
INTO  Strange  Company,  and  becomes 
Captive  to  one  of  Haughty  Mien 212 

III.  Good  Friends  show  Paul  the  Road  to 

Freedom.    But  before  setting  out,  he 
WILL  GO  A- Visiting 241 

IV.  Leads  to  a  Meeting 267 

V.  How  ON  A  Sweet  Grey  Morning  the  Fu- 
ture CAME  TO  Paul 285 

VI.    Of  the  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil 

THAT  GO  TO  THE  MaKING  OF  LoVE 3II 

VII.     How  Paul  set  forth  upon  a  Quest 333 

VIII.     And  how  came  back  Again 365 

IX.     The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks  sends 

Paul  a  Ring 382 

X.     Paul  finds  his  Way 405 


Paul  Kelver 


PROLOGUE. 

IN    WHICH    THE   AUTHOR   SEEKS   TO    CAST   THE   RESPONSI- 
BILITY  OF   THIS   STORY   UPON   ANOTHER. 

At  the  corner  of  a  long,  straight,  brick-built  street  in 
the  far  East  End  of  London — one  of  those  lifeless  streets, 
made  of  two  drab  walls  upon  which  the  level  lines, 
formed  by  the  precisely  even  window-sills  and  doorsteps, 
stretch  in  weary  perspective  from  end  to  end,  suggest- 
ing petrified  diagrams  proving  dead  problems — stands  a 
house  that  ever  draws  me  to  it ;  so  that  often,  when  least 
conscious  of  my  footsteps,  I  awake  to  fmd  myself  hurry- 
ing through  noisy,  crowded  thoroughfares,  where  flaring 
naphtha  lamps  illumine  fierce,  patient,  leaden-coloured 
faces;  through  dim-lit,  empty  streets,  where  monstrous 
shadows  come  and  go  upon  the  close-drawn  blinds; 
through  narrow,  noisome  streets,  where  the  gutters 
swarm  with  children,  and  each  ever-open  doorway 
vomits  riot ;  past  reeking  corners,  and  across  waste  places, 
till  at  last  I  reach  the  dreary  goal  of  my  memory-driven 
desire,  and,  coming  to  a  halt  beside  the  broken  railings, 
find  rest. 

The  house,  larger  than  its  fellows,  built  when  the  street 
was  still  a  country  lane,  edging  the  marshes,  strikes  a 
strange  note  of  individuality  amid  the  surrounding  har- 
mony of  hideousness.  It  is  encompassed  on  two  sides 
by  what  was  once  a  garden,  though  now  but  a  barren 


2i '.<         '  IPaul  Kelver 

p'atcii'O'r' sioiiis  itrid'dust  where  clothes — it  is  odd  any- 
one should  have  thought  of  washing — hang  in  perpetu- 
ity; while  about  the  door  continue  the  remnants  of  a 
porch,  which  the  stucco  falling  has  left  exposed  in  all  its 
naked  insincerity. 

Occasionally  I  drift  hitherward  in  the  day  time,  when 
slatternly  women  gossip  round  the  area  gates,  and  the 
silence  is  broken  by  the  hoarse,  wailing  cry  of  "Coals — 
any  coals — three  and  sixpence  a  sack — co-o-o-als!" 
chanted  in  a  tone  that  absence  of  response  has  stamped 
with  chronic  melancholy;  but  then  the  street  knows  me 
not,  and  my  old  friend  of  the  corner,  ashamed  of  its  shab- 
biness  in  the  unpitying  sunlight,  turns  its  face  away,  and 
will  not  see  me  as  I  pass. 

Not  until  the  Night,  merciful  alone  of  all  things  to  the 
ugly,  draws  her  veil  across  its  sordid  features  will  it,  as 
some  fond  old  nurse,  sought  out  in  after  years,  open  wide 
its  arms  to  welcome  me.  Then  the  teeming  life  it  now 
shelters,  hushed  for  a  time  within  its  walls,  the  flicker- 
ing flare  from  the  "King  of  Prussia"  opposite  extin- 
guished, will  it  talk  with  me  of  the  past,  asking  me  many 
questions,  reminding  me  of  many  things  I  had  forgotten. 
Then  into  the  silent  street  come  the  well-remembered 
footsteps;  in  and  out  the  creaking  gate  pass,  not  seeing 
me,  the  well-remembered  faces;  and  we  talk  concerning 
them ;  as  two  cronies,  turning  the  torn  leaves  of  some  old 
album  where  lie  faded  portraits  in  forgotten  fashions, 
speak  together  in  low  tones  of  those  now  dead  or  scat- 
tered, with  now  a  smile  and  now  a  sigh,  and  many  an 
"Ah  me  r  or  "Dear,  dear  r 

This  bent,  worn  man,  coming  towards  us  with  quick, 
impatient  steps,  which  yet  cease  every  fifty  yards  or  so, 
while  he  pauses,  leaning  heavily  upon  his  high  Malacca 
cane:  "It  is  a  handsome  face,  is  it  not?"  I  ask,  as  I  gaze 
upon  it,  shadow  framed. 

"Aye,  handsome  enough,"  answers  the  old  House; 
"and  handsomer  still  it  must  have  been  before  you  and 


Prologue  3 

I  knew  it,  before  mean  care  had  furrowed  it  with  fretful 
Hnes." 

"I  never  could  make  out,"  continues  the  old  House, 
musingly,  "whom  you  took  after;  for  they  were  a  hand- 
some pair,  your  father  and  your  mother,  though  Lord! 
what  a  couple  of  children!" 

"Children !"  I  say  in  surprise,  for  my  father  must  have 
been  past  five  and  thirty  before  the  House  could  have 
known  him,  and  my  mother's  face  is  very  close  to  mine, 
in  the  darkness,  so  that  I  see  the  many  grey  hairs  min- 
gling with  the  bonny  brown. 

"Children,"  repeats  the  old  House,  irritably,  so  it  seems 
to  me,  not  liking,  perhaps,'  its  opinions  questioned,  a  fail- 
ing common  to  old  folk;  "the  most  helpless  pair  of  chil- 
dren I  ever  set  eyes  upon.  Who  but  a  child,  I  should  like 
to  know,  would  have  conceived  the  notion  of  repairing  his 
fortune  by  becoming  a  solicitor  at  thirty-eight,  or,  having 
conceived  such  a  notion,  would  have  selected  the  out- 
skirts of  Poplar  as  a  likely  centre  in  which  to  put  up  his 
door-plate  ?" 

"It  was  considered  to  be  a  rising  neighbourhood,"  I 
reply,  a  little  resentful.  No  son  cares  to  hear  the  family 
wisdom  criticised,  even  though  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
he  may  be  in  agreement  with  the  critic.  "All  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men,  whose  affairs  were  in  connection  with 
the  sea  would,  it  was  thought,  come  to  reside  hereabout, 
so  as  to  be  near  to  the  new  docks;  and  had  they,  it  is 
not  unreasonable  to  suppose  they  would  have  quarrelled 
and  disputed  with  one  another,  much  to  the  advantage  of 
a  cute  solicitor,  convenient  to  their  hand." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,"  retorts  the  old  House,  shortly; 
"why,  the  mere  smell  of  the  place  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient to  keep  a  sensible  man  away.  And" — the  grim 
brick  face  before  me  twists  itself  into  a  goblin  smile — "he, 
of  all  men  in  the  world,  as  'the  cute  solicitor,'  giving  ad- 
vice to  shady  clients,  eager  to  get  out  of  trouble  by  the 
shortest  way,  can  you  fancy  it!  he  who  for  two  years 


4  Paul  Kelver 

starved  himself,  living  on  five  shillings  a  week — that  was 
before  you  came  to  London,  when  he  was  here  alone. 
Even  your  mother  knew  nothing  of  it  till  years  after- 
wards— so  that  no  man  should  be  a  penny  the  poorer  for 
having  trusted  his  good  name.  Do  you  think  the  crew 
of  chandlers  and  brokers,  dock  hustlers  and  freight 
wreckers  would  have  found  him  a  useful  man  of  business, 
even  had  they  come  to  settle  here  ?" 

I  have  no  answer;  nor  does  the  old  House  wait  for 
any,  but  talks  on. 

"And  your  mother!  would  any  but  a  child  have  taken 
that  soft-tongued  wanton  to  her  bosom,  and  not  have  seen 
through  acting  so  transparent?  Would  any  but  the  veri- 
est child  that  never  ought  to  have  been  let  out  into  the 
world  by  itself  have  thought  to  dree  her  weird  in  such 
folly  ?    Children !  poor  babies  they  were,  both  of  them." 

"Tell  me,"  I  say — for  at  such  times  all  my  stock  of 
common  sense  is  not  sufficient  to  convince  me  that  the 
old  House  is  but  clay.  From  its  walls  so  full  of  voices, 
from  its  floors  so  thick  with  footsteps,  surely  it  has 
learned  to  live ;  as  a  violin,  long  played  on,  comes  to  learn 
at  last  a  music  of  its  own.  "Tell  me,  I  was  but  a  child  to 
whom  life  speaks  in  a  strange  tongue,  was  there  any  truth 
in  the  story?" 

"Truth !"  snaps  out  the  old  House ;  "just  truth  enough 
to  plant  a  lie  upon ;  and  Lord  knows  not  much  ground  is 
needed  for  that  weed.  I  saw  what  I  saw,  and  I  know  what 
I  know.  Your  mother  had  a  good  man,  and  your  father  a 
true  wife,  but  it  was  the  old  story :  a  man's  way  is  not  a 
woman's  way,  and  a  woman's  way  is  not  a  man's  way,  so 
there  lives  ever  doubt  between  them." 

"But  they  came  together  in  the  end,"  I  say,  remember- 
ing. 

"Aye,  in  the  end,"  answers  the  House.  "That  is  when 
you  begin  to  understand,  you  men  and  women,  when  you 
come  to  the  end." 

The  grave  face  of  a  not  too  recently  washed  angel 


Prologue  5 

peeps  shyly  at  me  through  the  raiUngs,  then,  as  I  turn  my 
head,  darts  back  and  disappears. 

''What  has  become  of  her?"  I  ask. 

''She?  Oh,  she  is  well  enough,"  replies  the  House. 
"She  lives  close  here.  You  must  have  passed  the  shop. 
You  might  have  seen  her  had  you  looked  in.  She  weighs 
fourteen  stone,  about ;  and  has  nine  children  living.  She 
would  be  pleased  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you,"  I  say,  with  a  laugh  that  is  not  wholly  a 
laugh ;  "I  do  not  think  I  will  call."  But  I  still  hear  the 
pit-pat  of  her  tiny  feet,  dying  down  the  long  street. 

The  faces  thicken  round  me.  A  large  looming,  rubi- 
cund visage  smiles  kindly  on  me,  bringing  back  into  my 
heart  the  old,  odd  mingling  of  instinctive  liking  held  in 
check  by  conscientious  disapproval.  I  turn  from  it,  and 
see  a  massive,  clean-shaven  face,  with  the  ugliest  mouth 
and  the  loveliest  eyes  I  ever  have  known  in  a  man. 

"Was  he  as  bad,  do  you  think,  as  they  said  ?"  I  ask  of 
my  ancient  friend. 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  the  old  House  answers.  "I  never 
knew  a  worse — ^nor  a  better." 

The  wind  whisks  it  aside,  leaving  to  view  a  little  old 
woman,  hobbling  nimbly  by  aid  of  a  stick.  Three  cork- 
screw curls  each  side  of  her  head  bob  with  each  step  she 
takes,  and  as  she  draws  near  to  me,  making  the  most 
alarming  grimaces,  I  hear  her  whisper,  as  though  con- 
fiding to  herself  some  fascinating  secret,  "I'd  like  to  skin 
'em.  I'd  like  to  skin  'em  all.  I'd  like  to  skin  'em  all 
alive!" 

It  sounds  a  fiendish  sentiment,  yet  I  only  laugh,  and 
the  little  old  lady,  with  a  final  facial  contortion  surpassing 
all  dreams,  limps  beyond  my  ken. 

Then,  as  though  choosing  contrasts,  follows  a  fair, 
laughing  face.  I  saw  it  in  the  life  only  a  few  hours  ago — 
at  least,  not  it,  but  the  poor  daub  that  Evil  has  painted 
over  it,  hating  the  sweetness  underlying.  And  as  I  stand 
gazing  at  it,  wishing  it  were  of  the  dead  who  change  not. 


6  Paul  Kelver 

there  drifts  back  from  the  shadows  that  other  face,  the 
one  of  the  wicked  mouth  and  the  tender  eyes,  so  that  I 
stand  again  helpless  between  the  two  I  loved  so  well,  he 
from  whom  I  learned  my  first  steps  in  manhood,  she 
from  whom  I  caught  my  first  glimpse  of  the  beauty  and 
the  mystery  of  woman.  And  again  the  cry  rises  from  my 
heart,  "Whose  fault  was  it — yours  or  hers?"  And  again 
I  hear  his  mocking  laugh  as  he  answers,  "Whose  fault? 
God  made  us."  And  thinking  of  her  and  of  the  love  I 
bore  her,  which  was  as  the  love  of  a  young  pilgrim  to  a 
saint,  it  comes  into  my  blood  to  hate  him.  But  when  I 
look  into  his  eyes  and  see  the  pain  that  lives  there,  my 
pity  grows  stronger  than  my  misery,  and  I  can  only  echo 
his  words,  "God  made  us." 

Merry  faces  and  sad,  fair  faces  and  foul,  they  ride 
upon  the  wind;  but  the  centre  round  which  they  circle 
remains  always  the  one :  a  little  lad  with  golden  curls 
more  suitable  to  a  girl  than  to  a  boy,  with  shy,  awkward 
ways  and  a  silent  tongue,  and  a  grave,  old-fashioned  face. 

And,  turning  from  him  to  my  old  brick  friend,  I  ask: 
"Would  he  know  me,  could  he  see  me,  do  you  think?" 

"How  should  he,"  answers  the  old  House,  "you  are  so 
different  to  what  he  would  expect.  Would  you  recognise 
your  own  ghost,  think  you  ?" 

"It  is  sad  to  think  he  would  not  recognise  me,"  I  say. 

"It  might  be  sadder  if  he  did,"  grumbles  the  old 
House. 

We  both  remained  silent  for  awhile;  but  I  know  of 
what  the  old  House  is  thinking.  Soon  it  speaks  as  I  ex- 
pected. 

"You — writer  of  stories,  why  don't  you  write  a  book 
about  him?    There  is  something  that  you  know." 

It  is  the  favourite  theme  of  the  old  House.  I  never 
visit  it  but  it  suggests  to  me  this  idea. 

"But  he  has  done  nothing?"  I  say. 

"He  has  lived,"  answers  the  old  House.  "Is  not  that 
enough  ?" 


Prologue  7 

"Aye,  but  only  in  London  in  these  prosaic  modern 
times,"  I  persist.  "How  of  such  can  one  make  a  story 
that  shall  interest  the  people  ?" 

The  old  House  waxes  impatient  of  me. 

"  The  people !'  "  it  retorts,  "what  are  you  all  but  chil- 
dren in  a  dim-lit  room,  waiting  until  one  by  one  you  are 
called  out  to  sleep.  And  one  mounts  upon  a  stool  and 
tells  a  tale  to  the  others  who  have  gathered  round.  Who 
shall  say  what  will  please  them,  what  will  not." 

Returning  home  with  musing  footsteps  through  the 
softly  breathing  streets,  I  ponder  the  words  of  the  old 
House.  Is  it  but  as  some  foolish  mother  thinking  all  the 
world  interested  in  her  child,  or  may  there  lie  wisdom 
in  its  counsel?  Then  to  my  guidance  or  misguidance 
comes  the  thought  of  a  certain  small  section  of  the  Public 
who  often  of  an  evening  commands  of  me  a  story;  and 
who,  when  I  have  told  her  of  the  dreadful  giants  and  of 
the  gallant  youths  who  slay  them,  of  the  wood-cutter's 
sons  who  rescue  maidens  from  Ogre-guarded  castles ;  of 
the  Princesses  the  most  beautiful  in  all  the  world,  of  the 
Princes  with  magic  swords,  still  unsatisfied,  creeps  closer 
yet,  saying:  "Now  tell  me  a  real  story,"  adding  for  my 
comprehending :  "You  know :  about  a  little  girl  who  lived 
in  a  big  house  with  her  father  and  mother,  and  who  was 
sometimes  naughty,  you  know." 

So  perhaps  among  the  many  there  may  be  some  who 
for  a  moment  will  turn  aside  from  tales  of  haughty 
Heroes,  ruffling  it  in  Court  and  Camp,  to  listen  to  the 
story  of  a  very  ordinary  lad  who  lived  with  very  ordinary 
folk  in  a  modern  London  street,  and  who  grew  up  to  be 
a  very  ordinary  sort  of  man,  loving  a  little  and  grieving  a 
little,  helping  a  few  and  harming  a  few,  struggling  and 
failing  and  hoping;  and  if  any  such  there  be,  let  them 
come  round  me. 

But  let  not  those  who  come  to  me  grow  indignant  as 
they  listen,  saying:  "This  rascal  tells  us  but  a  humdrum 
story,  where  nothing  is  as  it  should  be ;"  for  I  warn  all  be- 


8  Paul  Kelver 

forehand  that  I  tell  but  of  things  that  I  have  seen.  My 
villains,  I  fear,  are  but  poor  sinners,  not  altogether  bad; 
and  my  good  men  but  sorry  saints.  My  princes  do  not 
always  slay  their  dragons;  alas,  sometimes,  the  dragon 
eats  the  prince.  The  wicked  fairies  often  prove  more 
powerful  than  the  good.  The  magic  thread  leads  some- 
times wrong,  and  even  the  hero  is  not  always  brave  and 
true. 

So  let  those  come  round  me  only  who  will  be  content 
to  hear  but  their  own  story,  told  by  another,  saying  as 
they  listen,  "So  dreamt  I.  Ah,  yes,  that  is  true,  I  re- 
member." 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAUL,     ARRIVED     IN     A     STRANGE     LAND,     LEARNS     MANY 
THINGS,   AND   GOES   TO   MEET   THE   MAN   IN    GREY. 

Fate  intended  me  for  a  singularly  fortunate  man. 
Properly,  I  ought  to  have  been  born  in  June,  which  being, 
as  is  well  known,  the  luckiest  month  in  all  the  year  for 
such  events,  should,  by  thoughtful  parents,  be  more  gen- 
erally selected.  How  it  was  I  came  to  be  born  in  May, 
which  is,  on  the  other  hand,  of  all  the  twelve  the  most 
unlucky,  as  I  have  proved,  I  leave  to  those  more  conver- 
sant with  the  subject  to  explain.  An  early  nurse,  the 
first  human  being  of  whom  I  have  any  distinct  recollec- 
tion, unhesitatingly  attributed  the  unfortunate  fact  to  my 
natural  impatience;  which  quality  she  at  the  same  time 
predicted  would  lead  me  into  even  greater  trouble,  a 
prophecy  impressed  by  future  events  with  the  stamp  of 
prescience.  It  was  from  this  same  bony  lady  that  I  like- 
wise learned  the  manner  of  my  coming.  It  seems  that  I 
arrived,  quite  unexpectedly,  two  hours  after  news  had 
reached  the  house  of  the  ruin  of  my  father's  mines 
through  inundation;  misfortunes,  as  it  was  expounded  to 
me,  never  coming  singly  in  this  world  to  any  one.  That 
all  things  might  be  of  a  piece,  my  poor  mother,  attempt- 
ing to  reach  the  bell,  fell  against  and  broke  the  cheval- 
glass,  thus  further  saddening  herself  with  the  conviction 
— for  no  amount  of  reasoning  ever  succeeded  in  purging 
her  Welsh  blood  of  its  natural  superstition — that  whatever 
might  be  the  result  of  future  battles  with  my  evil  star,  the 
first  seven  years  of  my  existence  had  been,  by  her  act, 
doomed  to  disaster. 


lo  Paul  Kelvei 

"And  I  must  confess,"  added  the  knobbly  Mrs.  Fursey, 
with  a  sigh,  "it  does  look  as  though  there  must  be  some 
truth  in  the  saying,  after  all." 

"Then  ain't  I  a  lucky  little  boy?"  I  asked.  For  hither- 
to it  had  been  Mrs.  Fursey's  method  to  impress  upon  me 
my  exceptional  good  fortune.  That  I  could  and  did, 
involuntarily,  retire  to  bed  at  six,  while  less  happily 
placed  children  were  deprived  of  their  natural  rest  until 
eight  or  nine  o'clock,  had  always  been  held  up  to  me  as  an 
astounding  piece  of  luck.  Some  little  boys  had  not  a  bed 
at  all;  for  the  which,  in  my  more  riotous  moments,  I 
envied  them.  Again,  that  at  the  first  sign  of  a  cold  it 
became  my  unavoidable  privilege  to  lunch  off  linseed 
gruel  and  sup  off  brimstone  and  treacle — a  compound 
named  with  deliberate  intent  to  deceive  the  innocent,  the 
treacle,  so  far  as  taste  is  concerned,  being  wickedly  sub- 
ordinated to  the  brimstone — was  another  example  of 
Fortune's  favouritism :  other  little  boys  were  so  astound- 
ingly  unlucky  as  to  be  left  alone  when  they  felt  ill.  If 
further  proof  were  needed  to  convince  that  I  had  been 
signalled  out  by  Providence  as  its  especial  protege,  there 
remained  always  the  circumstance  that  I  possessed  Mrs. 
Fursey  for  my  nurse.  The  suggestion  that  I  was  not  al- 
together the  luckiest  of  children  was  a  new  departure. 

The  good  dame  evidently  perceived  her  error,  and 
made  haste  to  correct  it. 

"Oh,  you!  You  are  lucky  enough,"  she  replied;  "I 
was  thinking  of  your  poor  mother." 

"Isn't  mamma  lucky?" 

"Well,  she  hasn't  been  too  lucky  since  you  came." 

"Wasn't  it  lucky,  her  having  me?" 

"I  can't  say  it  was,  at  that  particular  time." 

"Didn't  she  want  me?" 

Mrs.  Fursey  was  one  of  those  well-meaning  persons 
who  are  of  opinion  that  the  only  reasonable  attitude  of 
childhood  should  be  that  of  perpetual  apology  for  its 
existence. 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey      1 1 

"Well,  I  daresay  she  could  have  done  without  you," 
was  the  answer. 

I  can  see  the  picture  plainly  still.  I  am  sitting  on  a 
low  chair  before  the  nursery  fire,  one  knee  supported  in 
my  locked  hands,  meanwhile  Mrs.  Fursey's  needle  grate'; 
with  monotonous  regularity  against  her  thimble.  At  that 
moment  knocked  at  my  small  soul  for  the  first  time  the 
problem  of  life. 

Suddenly,  without  moving,  I  said : 

''Then  why  did  she  take  me  in?" 

The  rasping  click  of  the  needle  on  the  thimble  ceased 
abruptly. 

"Took  you  in !  What's  the  child  talking  about  ?  Who's 
took  you  in?" 

"Why,  mamma.  If  she  didn't  want  me,  why  did  she 
take  me  in?" 

But  even  while,  with  heart  full  of  dignified  resentment, 
I  propounded  this,  as  I  proudly  felt,  logically  unanswer- 
able question,  I  was  glad  that  she  had.  The  vision  of  my 
being  refused  at  the  bedroom  window  presented  itself  to 
my  imagination.  I  saw  the  stork,  perplexed  and  an- 
noyed, looking  as  I  had  sometimes  seen  Tom  Pinfold  look 
when  the  fish  he  had  been  holding  out  by  the  tail  had  been 
sniffed  at  by  Anna,  and  the  kitchen  door  shut  in  his  face. 
Would  the  stork  also  have  gone  away  thoughtfully 
scratching  his  head  with  one  of  those  long,  compass-like 
legs  of  his,  and  muttering  to  himself.  And  here,  inci- 
dentally, I  fell  a-wondering  how  the  stork  had  carried 
me.  In  the  garden  I  had  often  watched  a  blackbird  carry- 
ing a  worm,  and  the  worm,  though  no  doubt  really  safe 
enough,  had  always  appeared  to  me  nervous  and  uncom- 
fortable. Had  I  wriggled  and  squirmed  in  like  fashion? 
And  where  would  the  stork  have  taken  me  to  then  ?  Pos- 
sibly to  Mrs.  Fursey's :  their  cottage  was  the  nearest. 
But  I  felt  sure  Mrs.  Fursey  would  not  have  taken  me  in ; 
and  next  to  them,  at  the  first  house  in  the  village,  lived 
Mr.  Chumdley,  the  cobbler,  who  was  lame,  and  who  sat 


12  Paul  Kelver 

all  day  hammering  boots  with  very  dirty  hands,  in  a  little 
cave  half  under  the  ground,  his  whole  appearance  sug- 
gesting a  poor-spirited  ogre.  I  should  have  hated  being 
his  little  boy.  Possibly  nobody  would  have  taken  me  in. 
I  grew  pensive,  thinking  of  myself  as  the  rejected  of  all 
the  village.  What  would  the  stork  have  done  with  me, 
left  on  his  hands,  so  to  speak.  The  reflection  prompted  a 
fresh  question. 

"Nurse,  where  did  I  come  from?" 

"Why,  I've  told  you  often.     The  stork  brought  you." 

"Yes,  I  know.    But  where  did  the  stork  get  me  from  ?" 

Mrs.  Fursey  paused  for  quite  a  long  while  before  reply- 
ing. Possibly  she  was  reflecting  whether  such  answer 
might  not  make  me  unduly  conceited.  Eventually  she 
must  have  decided  to  run  that  risk;  other  opportunities 
could  be  relied  upon  for  neutralising  the  effect. 

"Oh,  from  Heaven." 

"But  I  thought  Heaven  was  a  place  where  you  went 
to,"  I  answered ;  "not  where  you  comed  from."  I  know 
I  said  "comed,"  for  I  remember  that  at  this  period  my 
irregular  verbs  wxre  a  bewildering  anxiety  to  my  poor 
mother.  "Comed"  and  "goned,"  which  I  had  worked  out 
for  myself,  were  particular  favourites  of  mine. 

Mrs.  Fursey  passed  over  my  grammar  in  dignified 
silence.  She  had  been  pointedly  requested  not  to  trouble 
herself  with  that  part  of  my  education,  my  mother  hold- 
ing that  diverging  opinions  upon  the  same  subject  only 
confused  a  child. 

"You  came  from  Heaven,"  repeated  Mrs.  Fursey,  "and 
you'll  go  to  Heaven — if  you're  good." 

"Do  all  little  boys  and  girls  come  from  Heaven  ?" 

"So  they  say."  Mrs.  Fursey's  tone  implied  that  she 
was  stating  what  might  possibly  be  but  a  popular  fallacy, 
for  which  she  individually  took  no  responsibility. 

"And  did  you  come  from  Heaven,  Mrs.  Fursey  ?"  Mrs. 
Fursey's  reply  to  this  was  decidedly  more  emphatic. 

"Of  course  I  did.    Where  do  you  think  I  came  from?" 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey      i  3 

At  once,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  Heaven  lost  its  exalted 
position  in  my  eyes.  Even  before  this,  it  had  puzzled  me 
that  everybody  I  knew  should  be  going  there — for  so  I 
was  always  assured ;  now,  connected  as  it  appeared  to  be 
with  the  origin  of  Mrs.  Fursey,  much  of  its  charm  disap- 
peared. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Mrs.  Fursey's  information  had 
suggested  to  me  a  fresh  grief.  I  stopped  not  to  console 
myself  with  the  reflection  that  my  fate  had  been  but  the 
fate  of  all  little  boys  and  girls.  With  a  child's  egoism  I 
seized  only  upon  my  own  particular  case. 

"Didn't  they  want  me  in  Heaven  then,  either?"  I 
asked.    ''Weren't  they  fond  of  me  up  there?" 

The  misery  in  my  voice  must  have  penetrated  even 
Mrs.  Fursey's  bosom,  for  she  answered  more  sympathet- 
ically than  usual. 

"Oh,  they  liked  you  well  enough,  I  daresay.  I  like 
you,  but  I  Hke  to  get  rid  of  you  sometimes."  There 
could  be  no  doubt  as  to  this  last.  Even  at  the  time,  I  often 
doubted  whether  that  six  o'clock  bedtime  was  not  occa- 
sionally half-past  five. 

The  answer  comforted  me  not.  It  remained  clear  that 
I  was  not  wanted  either  in  Heaven  nor  upon  the  earth. 
God  did  not  want  me.  He  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  me. 
My  mother  did  not  want  me.  She  could  have  done  with- 
out me.    Nobody  wanted  me.    Why  was  I  here  ? 

And  then,  as  the  sudden  opening  and  shutting  of  the 
door  of  a  dark  room,  came  into  my  childish  brain  the 
feeling  that  Something,  somewhere,  must  have  need  of 
me,  or  I  could  not  be.  Something  I  felt  I  belonged  to  and 
that  belonged  to  me.  Something  that  was  as  much  a  part 
of  me  as  I  of  It.  The  feeling  came  back  to  me  more 
than  once  during  my  childhood,  though  I  could  never  put 
it  into  words.  Years  later  the  son  of  the  Portuguese  Jew 
explained  to  me  my  thought.  But  all  that  I  myself  could 
have  told  was  that  in  that  moment  I  knew  for  the  first 
time  that  I  lived,  that  I  was  I. 


14  Paul  Kelver 

The  next  instant  all  was  dark  again,  and  I  once  more 
a  puzzled  little  boy,  sitting  by  a  nursery  fire,  asking  of  a 
village  dame  questions  concerning  life. 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  came  to  me,  or  rather  the 
recollection  of  an  old. 

"Nurse,  why  haven't  we  got  a  husband  ?'' 

Mrs.  Fursey  left  off  her  sewing,  and  stared  at  me. 

"What  maggot  has  the  child  got  into  its  head  now?" 
was  her  observation ;  "who  hasn't  got  a  husband  ?" 

"Why,  mamma." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense.  Master  Paul;  you  know  your 
mamma  has  got  a  husband." 

"No,  she  ain't." 

"And  don't  contradict.  Your  mamma's  husband  is  your 
papa,  who  lives  in  London." 

"What's  the  good  of  himT 

Mrs.  Fursey's  reply  appeared  to  me  to  be  unnecessarily 
vehement. 

"You  wicked  child,  you ;  where's  your  commandments  ? 
Your  father  is  in  London  working  hard  to  earn  money  to 
keep  you  in  idleness,  and  you  sit  there  and  say  'What's 
the  good  of  him !'  I'd  be  ashamed  to  be  such  an  ungrate- 
ful little  brat." 

I  had  not  meant  to  be  ungrateful.  My  words  were  but 
the  repetition  of  a  conversation  I  had  overheard  the  day 
before  between  my  mother  and  my  aunt. 

Had  said  my  aunt:  "There  she  goes,  moping  again. 
Drat  me  if  ever  I  saw  such  a  thing  to  mope  as  a  woman." 

My  aunt  was  entitled  to  preach  on  the  subject.  She 
herself  grumbled  all  day  about  all  things,  but  she  did  it 
cheerfully. 

My  mother  was  standing  with  her  hands  clasped  be- 
hind her — a  favourite  attitude  of  hers — ^gazing  through 
the  high  French  window  into  the  garden  beyond.  It  must 
have  been  spring  time,  for  I  remember  the  white  and 
yellow  crocuses  decking  the  grass. 

"I  want  a  husband,"  had  answered  my  mother,  in  a 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey      1 5 

tone  so  ludicrously  childish  that  at  sound  of  it  I  had 
looked  up  from  the  fairy  story  I  was  reading,  half  ex- 
pectant to  find  her  changed  into  a  little  girl ;  "I  hate  not 
having  a  husband." 

"Help  us  and  save  us,"  my  aunt  had  retorted;  "how 
many  more  does  a  girl  want  ?    She's  got  one." 

"What's  the  good  of  him  all  that  way  off,"  had  pouted 
my  mother;  "I  want  him  here  where  I  can  get  at  him." 

I  had  often  heard  of  this  father  of  mine,  who  lived  far 
away  in  London,  and  to  whom  we  owed  all  the  blessings 
of  life ;  but  my  childish  endeavours  to  square  information 
with  reflection  had  resulted  in  my  assigning  to  him  an 
entirely  spiritual  existence.  I  agreed  with  my  mother 
that  such  an  one,  however  to  be  revered,  was  no  substitute 
for  the  flesh  and  blood  father  possessed  by  luckier  folk — 
the  big,  strong,  masculine  thing  that  would  carry  a  fellow 
pig-a-back  round  the  garden,  or  take  a  chap  to  sail  in 
boats. 

"You  don't  understand  me,  nurse,"  I  explained ;  "what 
I  mean  is  a  husband  you  can  get  at." 

"Well,  and  you'll  'get  at  him,'  poor  gentleman,  one  of 
these  days,"  answered  Mrs.  Fursey.  "When  he's  ready 
for  you  he'll  send  for  you,  and  then  you'll  go  to  him  in 
London." 

I  felt  that  still  Mrs.  Fursey  didn't  understand.  But  I 
foresaw  that  further  explanation  would  only  shock  her, 
so  contented  myself  with  a  simple,  matter-of-fact  ques- 
tion. 

"How  do  you  get  to  London ;  do  you  have  to  die  first  ?" 

"I  do  think,"  said  Mrs.  Fursey,  in  the  voice  of  resigned 
despair  rather  than  of  surprise,  "that,  without  exception, 
you  are  the  silliest  little  boy  I  ever  came  across.  I've  no 
patience  with  you." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  nurse,"  I  answered ;  "I  thought " 

"Then,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Fursey,  in  the  voice  of  many 
generations,  "you  shouldn't  think.  London,"  continued 
the  good  dame,  her  experience  no  doubt  suggesting  that 


1 6  Paul  Kelver 

the  shortest  road  to  peace  would  be  through  my  under- 
standing of  this  matter,  "is  a  big  town,  and  you  go  there 
in  a  train.  Some  time — soon  now — your  father  will  write 
to  your  mother  that  everything  is  ready.  Then  you  and 
your  mother  and  your  aunt  will  leave  this  place  and  go  to 
London,  and  I  shall  be  rid  of  you." 

"And  shan't  we  come  back  here  ever  any  more?" 

"Never  again." 

"And  ril  never  play  in  the  garden  again,  never  go 
down  to  the  pebble-ridge  to  tea,  or  to  Jacob's  tower  ?" 

"Never  again."  I  think  Mrs.  Fursey  took  a  pleasure  in 
the  phrase.  It  sounded,  as  she  said  it,  like  something  out 
of  the  prayer-book. 

"And  I'll  never  see  Anna,  or  Tom  Pinfold,  or  old  Yeo, 
or  Pincher,  or  you,  ever  any  more?"  In  this  moment  of 
the  crumbling  from  under  me  of  all  my  footholds  I  would 
have  clung  even  to  that  dry  tuft,  Mrs.  Fursey  herself. 

"Never  any  more.  You'll  go  away  and  begin  an  en- 
tirely new  life.  And  I  do  hope.  Master  Paul,"  added 
Mrs.  Fursey,  piously,  "it  may  be  a  better  one.  That  you 
will  make  up  your  mind  to " 

But  Mrs.  Fursey's  well-meant  exhortations,  whatever 
they  may  have  been,  fell  upon  deaf  ears.  Here  was  I  face 
to  face  with  yet  another  problem.  This  life  into  which 
I  had  fallen :  it  was  understandable !  One  went  away, 
leaving  the  pleasant  places  that  one  knew,  never  to  return 
to  them.  One  left  one's  labour  and  one's  play  to  enter 
upon  a  new  existence  in  a  strange  land.  One  parted  from 
the  friends  one  had  always  known,  one  saw  them  never 
again.  Life  was  indeed  a  strange  thing;  and,  would  a 
body  comprehend  it,  then  must  a  body  sit  staring  into 
the  fire,  thinking  very  hard,  unheedful  of  all  idle  chatter. 

That  night,  when  my  mother  came  to  kiss  me  good- 
night, I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall  and  pretended  to  be 
asleep,  for  children  as  well  as  grown-ups  have  their  fool- 
ish moods ;  but  when  I  felt  the  soft  curls  brush  my  cheek. 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey      17 

my  pride  gave  way,  and  clasping  my  arms  about  her  neck, 
and  drawing  her  face  still  closer  down  to  mine,  I  voiced 
the  question  that  all  the  evening  had  been  knocking  at  my 
heart : 

"I  suppose  you  couldn't  send  me  back  now,  could  you? 
You  see,  you've  had  me  so  long." 

"Send  you  back?" 

"Yes.  I'd  be  too  big  for  the  stork  to  carry  now, 
wouldn't  I?" 

My  mother  knelt  down  beside  the  bed  so  that  her  face 
and  mine  were  on  a  level,  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  the 
fear  that  had  been  haunting  me  fell  from  me. 

"Who  has  been  talking  foolishly  to  a  foolish  little 
boy?"  asked  my  mother,  keeping  my  arms  still  clasped 
about  her  neck. 

"Oh,  nurse  and  I  were  discussing  things,  you  know,"  I 
answered,  "and  she  said  you  could  have  done  without 
me."  Somehow,  I  did  not  mind  repeating  the  words 
now ;  clearly  it  could  have  been  but  Mrs.  Fursey's  fun. 

My  mother  drew  me  closer  to  her. 

"And  what  made  her  think  that?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  I  replied,  "I  came  at  a  very  awkward 
time,  didn't  I ;  when  you  had  a  lot  of  other  troubles." 

My  mother  laughed,  but  the  next  moment  looked  grave 
again. 

"I  did  not  know  you  thought  about  such  things,"  she 
said;  "we  must  be  more  together,  you  and  I,  Paul,  and 
you  shall  tell  me  all  you  think,  because  nurse  does  not 
quite  understand  you.  It  is  true  what  she  said  about  the 
trouble;  it  came  just  at  that  time.  But  I  could  not  have 
done  without  you.  I  was  very  unhappy,  and  you  were 
sent  to  comfort  me  and  help  me  to  bear  it."  I  liked  this 
explanation  better. 

"Then  it  was  lucky,  your  having  me?"  I  said.  Again 
my  mother  laughed,  and  again  there  followed  that  graver 
look  upon  her  childish  face. 


1 8  Paul  Kelver 

"Will  you  remember  what  I  am  going  to  say?'*  She 
spoke  so  earnestly  that  I,  wriggling  into  a  sitting  posture, 
became  earnest  also. 

"I'll  try/'  I  answered; /'but  I  ain't  got  a  very  good 
memory,  have  I?" 

"Not  very,"  smiled  my  mother ;  "but  if  you  think  about 
it  a  good  deal  it  will  not  leave  you.  When  you  are  a 
good  boy,  and  later  on,  when  you  are  a  good  man,  then 
I  am  the  luckiest  little  mother  in  all  the  world.  And 
every  time  you  fail,  that  means  bad  luck  for  me.  You 
will  remember  that  after  I'm  gone,  when  you  are  a  big 
man,  won't  you,  Paul  ?" 

So,  both  of  us  quite  serious,  I  promised ;  and  though  I 
smile  now  when  I  remember,  seeing  before  me  those  two 
earnest,  childish  faces,  yet  I  think,  however  little  success 
it  may  be  I  have  to  boast  of,  it  would  perhaps  have  been 
still  less  had  I  entirely  forgotten. 

From  that  day  my  mother  waxes  in  my  rhemory ;  Mrs. 
Fursey,  of  the  many  promontories,  waning.  There  were 
sunny  mornings  in  the  neglected  garden,  where  the  leaves 
played  round  us  while  we  worked  and  read;  twilight 
evenings  in  the  window  seat  where,  half  hidden  by  the 
dark  red  curtains,  we  would  talk  in  whispers,  why  I 
know  not,  of  good  men  and  noble  women,  ogres,  fairies, 
saints  and  demons;  they  were  pleasant  days. 

Possibly  our  curriculum  lacked  method ;  maybe  it  was 
too  varied  and  extensive  for  my  age,  in  consequence  of 
which  chronology  became  confused  within  my  brain,  and 
fact  and  fiction  more  confounded  than  has  usually  been 
considered  permissible,  even  in  history.  I  saw  Aphrodite, 
ready  armed  and  risen  from  the  sea,  move  with  stately 
grace  to  meet  King  Canute,  who,  throned  upon  the  sand, 
bade  her  come  no  further  lest  she  should  wet  his  feet.  In 
forest  glade  I  saw  King  Rufus  fall  from  a  poisoned  arrow 
shot  by  Robin  Hood ;  but  thanks  to  sweet  Queen  Eleanor, 
who  sucked  the  poison  from  his  wound,  I  knew  he  lived. 
Oliver  Cromwell,  having  killed  King  Charles,  married  his 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey      1 9 

widow,  and  was  in  turn  stabbed  by  Hamlet.  Ulysses,  in 
the  Argo,  it  was  fixed  upon  my  mind,  had  discovered 
America.  Romulus  and  Remus  had  slain  the  wolf  and 
rescued  Little  Red  Riding  Hood.  Good  King  Arthur,  for 
letting  the  cakes  burn,  had  been  murdered  by  his  uncle  in 
the  Tower  of  London.  Prometheus,  bound  to  the  Rock, 
had  been  saved  by  good  St.  George.  Paris  had  given  the 
apple  to  William  Tell.  What  matter!  the  information 
was  there.    It  needed  rearranging,  that  was  all. 

Sometimes,  of  an  afternoon,  we  would  climb  the  steep 
winding  pathway  through  the  woods,  past  awful  preci- 
pices, spirit-haunted,  by  grassy  swards  where  fairies 
danced  o*  nights,  by  briar  and  bracken  sheltered  caves 
where  fearsome  creatures  lurked,  till  high  above  the  creep- 
ing sea  we  would  reach  the  open  plateau  where  rose  old 
Jacob's  ruined  tower.  "Jacob's  Folly"  it  was  more  often 
called  about  the  country  side,  and  by  some  **The  Devil's 
Tower;"  for  legend  had  it  that  there  old  Jacob  and  his 
master,  the  Devil,  had  often  met  in  windy  weather  to 
wave  false  wrecking  lights  to  troubled  ships.  Who  "old 
Jacob"  was,  I  never,  that  I  can  remember,  learned,  nor 
how  nor  why  he  built  the  Tower.  Certain  only  it  is  his 
memory  was  unpopular,  and  the  fisher  folk  would  swear 
that  still  on  stormy  nights  strange  lights  would  gleam  and 
flash  from  the  ivy-curtained  windows  of  his  Folly. 

But  in  day  time  no  spot  was  more  inviting,  the  short 
moss-grass  before  its  shattered  door,  the  lichen  on  its 
crumbling  stones.  From  its  topmost  platform  one  saw 
the  distant  mountains,  faint  like  spectres,  and  the  silent 
ships  that  came  and  vanished;  and  about  one's  feet  the 
pleasant  farm  lands  and  the  grave,  sweet  river. 

Smaller  and  poorer  the  world  has  grown  since  then. 
Now,  behind  those  hills  lie  naught  but  smoky  towns  and 
dingy  villages ;  but  then  they  screened  a  land  of  wonder 
where  princesses  dwelt  in  castles,  where  the  cities  were 
of  gold.  Now  the  ocean  is  but  six  days'  journey  wide, 
ending  at  the  New  York  Custom  House.    Then,  had  one 


20  Paul  Kelver 

set  one's  sail  upon  it,  one  would  have  travelled  far  and 
far,  beyond  the  golden  moonlight,  beyond  the  gate  of 
clouds ;  to  the  magic  land  of  the  blood  red  shore,  t'other 
side  o'  the  sun.  I  never  dreamt  in  those  days  a  world 
could  be  CO  small. 

Upon  the  topmost  platform  a  wooden  seat  ran  round 
within  the  parapet,  and  sitting  there  hand  in  hand,  shel- 
tered from  the  wind  which  ever  blew  about  the  tower, 
my  mother  would  people  for  me  all  the  earth  and  air 
with  the  forms  of  myth  and  legend — perhaps  unwisely, 
yet  I  do  not  know.  I  took  no  harm  from  it,  good  rather, 
I  think.  They  were  beautiful  fancies,  most  of  them;  or 
so  my  mother  turned  them,  making  for  love  and  pity,  as 
do  all  the  tales  that  live,  whether  poems  or  old  wives' 
fables.  But  at  that  time  of  course  they  had  no  meaning 
for  me  other  than  the  literal ;  so  that  my  mother,  looking 
into  my  eyes,  would  often  hasten  to  add :  "But  that,  you 
know,  is  only  an  old  superstition,  and  of  course  there  are 
no  such  things  nowadays."  Yet,  forgetful  sometimes  of 
the  time,  and  overtaken  homeward  by  the  shadows,  we 
would  hasten  swiftly  through  the  darkening  path,  hold- 
ing each  other  tightly  by  the  hand. 

Spring  had  waxed  to  summer,  summer  waned  to 
autumn.  Then  my  aunt  and  I  one  morning,  waiting  at 
the  breakfast  table,  saw  through  the  open  window  my 
mother  skipping,  dancing,  pirouetting  up  the  garden 
path.  She  held  a  letter  open  in  her  hand,  which  as  she 
drew  near  she  waved  about  her  head,  singing : 

''Saturday,  Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  then  comes 
Wednesday  morning." 

She  caught  me  to  her  and  began  dancing  with  me 
round  the  room. 

Observed  my  aunt,  who  continued  steadily  to  eat  bread 
and  butter : 

"Just  like  'em  all.  Goes  mad  with  joy.  What  for? 
Because  she's  going  to  leave  a  decent  house,  to  live  in  a 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey     2 1 

poky  hole  in  the  East  End  of  London,  and  keep  one  ser- 
vant." 

To  my  aunt  the  second  person  ever  remained  a  gram- 
matical superfluity.  Invariably  she  spoke  not  to  but  of  a 
person,  throwing  out  her  conversation  in  the  form  of 
commentary.  This  had  the  advantage  of  permitting  the 
party  intended  to  ignore  it  as  mere  impersonal  philos- 
ophy. Seeing  it  was  generally  uncomplimentary,  most 
people  preferred  so  to  regard  it;  but  my  mother  had 
never  succeeded  in  schooling  herself  to  indifference. 

"It's  not  a  poky  hole,"  she  replied;  "it's  an  old-fash- 
ioned house,  near  the  river." 

"Plaistow  marshes!"  ejaculated  my  aunt,  "calls  it  the 
river !" 

"So  it  is  the  river,"  returned  my  mother;  "the  river  is 
the  other  side  of  the  marshes." 

"Let's  hope  it  will  always  stop  there,"  said  my  aunt. 

"And  it's  got  a  garden,"  continued  my  mother,  ignor- 
ing my  aunt's  last  remark;  "which  is  quite  an  unusual 
feature  in  a  London  house.  And  it  isn't  the  East  End  of 
London ;  it  is  a  rising  suburb.  And  you  won't  make  me 
miserable  because  I  am  too  happy." 

"Drat  the  woman!"  said  my  aunt,  "why  can't  she  sit 
down  and  give  us  our  tea  before  it's  all  cold  ?" 

"You  are  a  disagreeable  thing!"  said  my  mother. 

"Not  half  milk,"  said  my  aunt.  My  aunt  was  never 
in  the  least  disturbed  by  other  people's  opinion  of  her, 
which  was  perhaps  well  for  her. 

For  three  days  my  mother  packed  and  sang;  and  a 
dozen  times  a  day  unpacked  and  laughed,  looking  for 
things  wanted  that  were  always  found  at  the  very  bot- 
tom of  the  very  last  box  looked  into,  so  that  Anna,  wait- 
ing for  a  certain  undergarment  of  my  aunt's  which  shall 
be  nameless,  suggested  a  saving  of  time: 

"If  I  were  you,  ma'am,"  said  Anna,  "I'd  look  into  the 
last  box  you're  going  to  look  into  first." 


22  Paul  Kelver 

But  it  was  found  eventually  in  the  first  box — ^the  box, 
that  is,  my  mother  had  intended  to  search  first,  but  which, 
acting  on  Anna's  suggestion,  she  had  reserved  till  the 
last.  This  caused  my  mother  to  be  quite  short  with 
Anna,  who  she  said  had  wasted  her  time.  But  by  Tues- 
day afternoon  all  stood  ready:  we  were  to  start  early 
Wednesday  morning. 

That  evening,  missing  my  mother  in  the  'house,  I 
sought  her  in  the  garden  and  found  her,  as  I  had  ex- 
pected, on  her  favourite  seat  under  the  great  lime  tree; 
but  to  my  surprise  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  glad  we  were  going,"  I  said. 

"So  I  am,"  answered  my  mother,  drying  her  eyes  only 
to  make  room  for  fresh  tears. 

"Then  why  are  you  crying?" 

"Because  Vm  sorry  to  leave  here." 

Grown-up  folks  with  their  contradictory  ways  were  a 
continual  puzzle  to  me  in  those  days;  I  am  not  sure  I 
quite  understand  them  even  now,  myself  included. 

We  were  up  and  off  next  day  before  the  dawn.  The 
sun  rose  as  the  wagon  reached  the  top  of  the  hill;  and 
there  we  paused  and  took  our  farewell  look  at  Old 
Jacob's  Tower.  My  mother  cried  a  little  behind  her  veil ; 
but  my  aunt  only  said,  "I  never  did  care  for  earwigs  in  my 
tea ;"  and  as  for  myself  I  was  too  excited  and  expectant  to 
feel  much  sentiment  about  anything. 

On  the  journey  I  sat  next  to  an  exceptionally  large  and 
heavy  man,  who  in  his  sleep — and  he  slept  often — 
imagined  me  to  be  a  piece  of  stuffing  out  of  place.  Then, 
grunting  and  wriggling,  he  would  endeavour  to  rub  me 
out,  until  the  continued  irritation  of  my  head  between  the 
window  and  his  back  would  cause  him  to  awake,  when 
he  would  look  down  upon  me  reprovingly  but  not  un- 
kindly, observing  to  the  carriage  generally :  "It's  a  funny 
thing,  ain't  it,  nobody's  ever  made  a  boy  yet  that  could 
keep  still  for  ten  seconds."  After  which  he  would  pat 
me  heartily  on  the  head,  to  show  he  was  not  vexed  with 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey     23 

me,  and  fall  to  sleep  again  upon  me.  He  was  a  good- 
tempered  man. 

My  mother  sat  occupied  chiefly  with  her  own  thoughts, 
and  my  aunt  had  found  a  congenial  companion  in  a  lady 
who  had  had  her  cap  basket  sat  upon;  so  I  was  left 
mainly  to  my  own  resources.  When  I  could  get  my  head 
free  of  the  big  man's  back,  I  gazed  out  of  the  window, 
and  watched  the  flying  fragments  as  we  shed  the  world. 
Now  a  village  would  fall  from  us,  now  the  yellow  corn- 
land  would  cling  to  us  for  awhile,  or  a  wood  catch  at 
our  rushing  feet,  and  sometimes  a  strong  town  would 
stop  us,  and  hold  us,  panting  for  a  space.  Or,  my  eyes 
weary,  I  would  sit  and  listen  to  the  hoarse  singing  of  the 
wheels  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  monotonous  chaunt, 
ever  the  same  two  lines : 

"Here  we  suffer  grief  and  pain. 
Here  we  meet  to  part  again," 

followed  by  a  low,  rumbling  laugh.  Sometimes  fortis- 
simo, sometimes  pianissimo;  now  vivace,  now  largo;  but 
ever  those  same  two  lines,  and  ever  followed  by  the  same 
low,  rumbling  laugh;  still  to  this  day  the  iron  wheels 
sing  to  me  that  same  song. 

Later  on  I  also  must  have  slept,  for  I  dreamt  that  as 
the  result  of  my  having  engaged  in  single  combat  with 
a  dragon,  the  dragon,  ignoring  all  the  rules  of  Fairyland, 
had  swallowed  me.  It  was  hot  and  stuffy  in  the  dragon's 
stomach.  He  had,  so  it  appeared  to  me,  disgracefully 
overeaten  himself;  there  were  hundreds  of  us  there,  en- 
tirely undigested,  including  Mother  Hubbard  and  a  gen- 
tleman named  Johnson,  against  whom,  at  that  period,  I 
entertained  a  strong  prejudice  by  reason  of  our  divergent 
views  upon  the  subject  of  spelling.  Even  in  this  hour  of 
our  mutual  discomfort  Johnson  would  not  leave  me  alone, 
but  persisted  in  asking  me  how  I  spelt  Jonah.  Nobody 
was  looking,  so  I  kicked  him.  He  sprang  up  and  came 
after  me.     I  tried  to  run  away,  but  became  wedged  be- 


24  Paul  Kelver 

tween  Hop-o'-my-Thumb  and  Julius  Caesar.  I  suppose 
our  tearing  about  must  have  hurt  the  dragon,  for  at  that 
moment  he  gave  vent  to  a  most  fearful  scream,  and  I 
awoke  to  find  the  fat  man  rubbing  his  left  shin,  while  we 
struggled  slowly,  with  steps  growing  ever  feebler,  against 
a  sea  of  brick  that  every  moment  closed  in  closer  round 
us. 

We  scrambled  out  of  the  carriage  into  a  great  echoing 
cave  that  might  have  been  the  dragon's  home,  where,  to 
my  alarm,  my  mother  was  immediately  swooped  down 
upon  by  a  strange  man  in  grey. 

''Why's  he  do  that  ?"  I  asked  of  my  aunt. 

"Because  he's  a  fool,"  answered  my  aunt;  "they  all 
are. 

He  put  my  mother  down  and  came  towards  us.  He  was 
a  tall,  thin  man,  with  eyes  one  felt  one  would  never  be 
afraid  of;  and  instinctively  even  then  I  associated  him  in 
my  mind  with  windmills  and  a  lank  white  horse. 

"Why,  how  he's  grown,"  said  the  grey  man,  raising 
me  in  his  arms  until  my  mother  beside  me  appeared  to 
me  in  a  new  light  as  quite  a  little  person ;  "and  solid  too." 

My  mother  whispered  something.  I  think  from  her 
face,  for  I  knew  the  signs,  it  was  praise  of  me. 

"And  he's  going  to  be  our  new  fortune,"  she  added 
aloud,  as  the  grey  man  lowered  me. 

"Then,"  said  my  aunt,  who  had  this  while  been  sitting 
rigid  upon  a  flat  black  box,  "don't  drop  him  down  a  coal- 
mine.   That's  all  I  say." 

I  wondered  at  the  time  why  the  grey  man's  pale  face 
should  flush  so  crimson,  and  why  my  mother  should  whis- 
per angrily : 

"How  can  you  be  so  wicked,  Fanny?  How  dare  you 
say  such  a  thing?" 

"I  only  said  'don't  drop  him  down  a  coal-mine,' "  re- 
turned my  aunt,  apparently  much  surprised;  "you  don't 
want  to  drop  him  down  a  coal-mine,  do  you  ?" 

We  passed   through   glittering,   joyous   streets,  piled 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey     25 

high  each  side  with  all  the  good  things  of  the  earth ;  toys 
and  baubles,  jewels  and  gold,  things  good  to  eat  and 
good  to  drink,  things  good  to  wear  and  good  to  see; 
through  pleasant  ways  where  fountains  splashed  and 
flowers  bloomed.  The  people  wore  bright  clothes,  had 
happy  faces.  They  rode  in  beautiful  carriages,  they 
strolled  about,  greeting  one  another  with  smiles.  The 
children  ran  and  laughed.  London,  thought  I  to  myself, 
is  the  city  of  the  fairies. 

It  passed,  and  we  sank  into  a  grim  city  of  hoarse,  roar- 
ing streets,  wherein  the  endless  throngs  swirled  and 
surged  as  I  had  seen  the  yellow  waters  curve  and  fret, 
contending,  where  the  river  pauses,  rock-bound.  Here 
were  no  bright  costumes,  no  bright  faces,  none  stayed  to 
greet  another;  all  was  stern,  and  swift,  and  voiceless. 
London,  then,  said  I  to  myself,  is  the  city  of  the  giants. 
They  must  live  in  these  towering  castles  side  by  side,  and 
these  hurrying  thousands  are  their  driven  slaves. 

But  this  passed  also,  and  wc  sank  lower  yet  until  we 
reached  a  third  city,  where  a  pale  mist  filled  each  sombre 
street.  None  of  the  beautiful  things  of  the  world  were 
to  be  seen  here,  but  only  the  things  coarse  and  ugly.  And 
wearily  to  and  fro  its  sunless  passages  trudged  with 
heavy  steps  a  weary  people,  coarse-clad,  and  with  dull, 
listless  faces.  And  London,  I  knew,  was  the  city  of 
the  gnomes  who  labour  sadly  all  their  lives,  imprisoned 
underground;  and  a  terror  seized  me  lest  I,  too,  should 
remain  chained  here,  deep  down  below  the  fairy  city  that 
was  already  but  a  dream. 

We  stopped  at  last  in  a  long,  unfinished  street.  I  re- 
member our  pushing  our  way  through  a  group  of  dirty 
urchins,  all  of  whom,  my  aunt  remarked  in  passmg,  ought 
to  be  skinned.  It  was  my  aunt's  one  prescription  for  all 
to  whom  she  took  objection;  but  really  in  the  present  in- 
stance I  think  it  would  have  been  of  service;  nothing 
else  whatever  could  have  restored  them  to  cleanliness. 
Then  the  door  closed  behind  us  with  an  echoing  clang, 


26  Paul  Kelver 

and  the  small,  cold  rooms  came  forward  stiffly  to  greet 
us. 

The  man  in  grey  went  to  the  one  window  and  drew 
back  the  curtain ;  it  was  growing  dusk  now.  My  aunt  sat 
on  a  straight,  hard  chair  and  stared  fixedly  at  the  three- 
armed  gaselier.  My  mother  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  with  one  small  ungloved  hand  upon  the  table,  and 
I  noticed — for  I  was  very  near — ^that  the  poor  little  one- 
legged  thing  was  trembling. 

"Of  course  it's  not  what  youVe  been  accustomed  to, 
Maggie,"  said  the  man  in  grey ;  "but  it's  only  for  a  little 
while." 

He  spoke  in  a  new,  angry  voice ;  but  I  could  not  see  his 
face,  his  back  being  to  the  light. 

My  mother  drew  his  arms  around  us  both. 

"It  is  the  best  home  in  all  the  world,"  she  said;  and 
thus  we  stayed  for  awhile. 

"Nonsense,"  said  my  aunt,  suddenly;  and  this  aroused 
us ;  "it's  a  poky  hole,  as  I  told  her  it  would  be.  Let  her 
thank  the  Lord  she's  got  a  man  clever  enough  to  get  her 
out  of  it.  I  know  him ;  he  never  could  rest  where  he  was 
put.    Now  he's  at  the  bottom ;  he'll  go  up." 

It  sounded  to  me  a  very  disagreeable  speech;  but  the 
grey  man  laughed — I  had  not  heard  him  laugh  till  then — 
and  my  mother  ran  to  my  aunt  and  kissed  her ;  and  some- 
how the  room  seemed  to  become  lighter. 

For  some  reason  I  slept  downstairs  that  night,  on  the 
floor,  behind  a  screen  improvised  out  of  a  clothes  horse 
and  a  blanket;  and  later  in  the  evening  the  clatter  of 
knives  and  forks  and  the  sound  of  subdued  voices  awoke 
me.  My  aunt  had  apparently  gone  to  bed;  my  mother 
and  the  man  in  grey  were  talking  together  over  their 
supper. 

"We  must  buy  land,"  said  the  voice  of  the  grey  man ; 
"London  is  coming  this  way.  The  Somebodies"  (I  for- 
get the  name  my  father  mentioned)  "made  all  their 
money  by  buying  up  land  round  New  York  for  a  mere 


Paul  Goes  to  Meet  the  Man  in  Grey     27 

song.  Then,  as  the  city  spread,  they  became  worth 
milHons." 

"But  where  will  you  get  the  money  from,  Luke?"  asked 
the  voice  of  my  mother. 

The  voice  of  the  grey  man  answered  airily : 

"Oh,  that's  merely  a  matter  of  business.  You  grant  a 
mortgage.  The  property  goes  up  in  value.  You  borrow 
more.    Then  you  buy  more — and  so  on." 

'T  see,"  said  my  mother. 

"Being  on  the  spot  gives  one  such  an  advantage,"  said 
the  grey  man.  "I  shall  know  just  when  to  buy.  It's  a 
great  thing,  being  on  the  spot." 

"Of  course,  it  must  be,"  said  my  mother. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  dozed,  for  the  next  words  I 
heard  the  grey  man  say  were : 

"Of  course  you  have  the  park  opposite,  but  then  the 
house  is  small." 

"But  shall  we  need  a  very  large  one?"  asked  my 
mother. 

"One  never  knows,"  said  the  grey  man.  "If  I  should 
go  into  Parliament " 

At  this  point  a  hissing  sound  arose  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  fire. 

"It  looks/'  said  my  mother,  "as  if  it  were  done." 

"If  you  will  hold  the  dish,"  said  the  grey  man,  "I  think 
I  can  pour  it  in  without  spilling." 

Again  I  must  have  dozed. 

"It  depends,"  said  the  grey  man,  "upon  what  he  is 
going  to  be.     For  the  classics,  of  course,  Oxford." 

"He's  going  to  be  very  clever,"  said  my  mother.  She 
spoke  as  one  who  knows. 

"We'll  hope  so,"  said  the  grey  man. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  my  mother,  "if  he 
turned  out  a  poet." 

The  grey  man  said  something  in  a  low  tone  that  I  did 
not  hear. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  answered  my  mother,  "it's  in  the 


28  Paul  Kelver 

blood.  IVe  often  thought  that  you,  Luke,  ought  to  have 
been  a  poet." 

"I  never  had  the.  time,"  said  the  grey  man.  "There 
were  one  or  two  Httle  things " 

"They  were  very  beautiful,"  interrupted  my  mother. 

The  clatter  of  the  knives  and  forks  continued  undis- 
turbed for  a  few  moments.  Then  continued  the  grey 
man: 

"There  would  be  no  harm,  provided  I  made  enough. 
It's  the  law  of  nature.  One  generation  earns,  the  next 
spends.  We  must  see.  In  any  case,  I  think  I  should 
prefer  Oxford  for  him." 

"It  will  be  so  hard  parting  from  him,"  said  my  mother. 

"There  will  be  the  vacations,"  said  the  grey  man,  "when 
we  shall  travel." 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN    WHICH    PAUL    MAKES    ACQUAINTANCE    OF    THE    MAN 
WITH   THE   UGLY   MOUTH. 

The  case  of  my  father  and  mother  was  not  normal. 
You  understand  they  had  been  separated  for  some  years, 
and  though  they  were  not  young  in  age — indeed,  before 
my  childish  eyes  they  loomed  quite  ancient  folk,  and  in 
fact  my  father  must  have  been  nearly  forty  and  my  mother 
quit  of  thirty — yet,  as  you  will  come  to  think  yourself,  no 
doubt,  during  the  course  of  my  story,  they  were  in  all  the 
essentials  of  life  little  more  than  boy  and  girl.  This  I 
came  to  see  later  on,  but  at  that  time,  had  I  been  con- 
sulted by  enquiring  maid  or  bachelor,  I  might  unwittingly 
have  given  wrong  impressions  concerning  marriage  in  the 
general.  I  should  have  described  a  husband  as  a  man  who 
could  never  rest  quite  content  unless  his  wife  were  by  his 
side;  who  twenty  times  a  day  would  call  from  his  office 
door:  "Maggie,  are  you  doing  anything  important?  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  a  matter  of  business."  .  .  . 
"Maggie,  are  you  alone?  Oh,  all  right,  I'll  come  down." 
Of  a  wife  I  should  have  said  she  was  a  woman  whose 
eyes  were  ever  love-lit  when  resting  on  her  man;  who 
was  glad  where  he  was  and  troubled  where  he  was  not. 
But  in  every  case  this  might  not  have  been  correct. 

Also,  I  should  have  had  something  to  say  concerning 
the  alarms  and  excursions  attending  residence  with  any 
married  couple.  I  should  have  recommended  the  holding 
up  of  feet  under  the  table  lest,  mistaken  for  other  feet, 
they  should  be  trodden  on  and  pressed.  Also,  I  should 
have  advised  against  entry  into  any  room  unpreceded  by 


30  Paul  Kelver 

what  in  Stageland  is  termed  "noise  without/*  It  is  some- 
what disconcerting  to  the  nervous  incomer  to  be  met,  the 
door  still  in  his  hand,  by  a  sound  as  of  people  springing 
suddenly  into  the  air,  followed  by  a  weird  scuttling  of  feet, 
and  then  to  discover  the  occupants  sitting  stiffly  in  oppo- 
site corners,  deeply  engaged  in  book  or  needlework.  But, 
as  I  have  said,  with  regard  to  some  households,  such  pre- 
cautions might  be  needless. 

Personally,  I  fear,  I  exercised  little  or  no  controlling 
influence  upon  my  parents  in  this  respect,  my  intrusions 
coming  soon  to  be  greeted  with:  "Oh,  it's  only  Spud," 
in  a  tone  of  relief,  accompanied  generally  by  the  sofa 
cushion;  but  of  my  aunt  they  stood  more  in  awe.  Not 
that  she  ever  said  anything,  and,  indeed,  to  do  her  justice, 
in  her  efforts  to  spare  their  feelings  she  erred,  if  at  all,  on 
the  side  of  excess.  Never  did  she  move  a  footstep  about 
the  house  except  to  the  music  of  a  sustained  and  pen- 
etrating cough.  As  my  father  once  remarked,  ungrate- 
fully, I  must  confess,  the  volume  of  bark  produced  by 
my  aunt  in  a  single  day  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
dying  efforts  of  a  hospital  load  of  consumptives ;  to  a  ro- 
bust and  perfectly  healthy  lady  the  cost  in  nervous  force 
must  have  been  prodigious.  Also,  that  no  fear  should  live 
with  them  that  her  eyes  had  seen  aught  not  intended  for 
them,  she  would  invariably  enter  backwards  any  room  in 
which  they  might  be,  closing  the  door  loudly  and  with 
difficulty  before  turning  round :  and  through  dark  pas- 
sages she  would  walk  singing.  No  woman  alive  could 
have  done  more ;  yet — such  is  human  nature ! — neither  my 
father  nor  my  mother  was  grateful  to  her,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge. 

Indeed,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  more  sympathetic 
towards  them  she  showed  herself,  the  more  irritated 
against  her  did  they  become. 

"I  believe,  Fanny,  you  hate  seeing  Luke  and  me  happy 
together,"  said  my  mother  one  day,  coming  up  from  the 
kitchen  to  find  my  aunt  preparing  for  entry  into  the  draw- 


The  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth       31 

ing-room  by  dropping  teaspoons  at  five-second  intervals 
outside  the  door :  ''Don't  make  yourself  so  ridiculous."  My 
mother  spoke  really  quite  unkindly. 

"Hate  it!"  replied  my  aunt.  "Why  should  I?  Why 
shouldn't  a  pair  of  turtle  doves  bill  and  coo,  when  their 
united  age  is  only  a  little  over  seventy,  the  pretty  dears  ?" 
The  mildness  of  my  aunt's  answers  often  surprised  me. 

As  for  my  father,  he  grew  positively  vindictive.  I  re- 
member the  occasion  well.  It  was  the  first,  though  not  the 
last  time  I  knew  him  lose  his  temper.  What  brought  up 
the  subject  I  forget,  but  my  father  stopped  suddenly ;  we 
were  walking  by  the  canal  bank. 

"Your  aunt" — my  father  may  not  have  intended  it,  but 
his  tone  and  manner  when  speaking  of  my  aunt  always 
conveyed  to  me  the  impression  that  he  regarded  me  as  per- 
sonally responsible  for  her  existence.  This  used  to  weigh 
upon  me.  "Your  aunt  is  the  most  cantankerous,  the 
most — "  he  broke  off,  and  shook  his  fist  towards  the  set- 
ting sun.  "I  wish  to  God,"  said  my  father,  "your  aunt 
had  a  comfortable  little  income  of  her  own,  with  a  free- 
hold cottage  in  the  country,  by  God  I  do !"  But  the  next 
moment,  ashamed,  I  suppose,  of  his  brutality:  "Not  but 
what  sometimes,  of  course,  she  can  be  very  nice,  you 
know,"  he  added ;  "don't  tell  your  mother  what  I  said  just 
now." 

Another  who  followed  with  sympathetic  interest  the 
domestic  comedy  was  Susan,  our  maid-of-all-work,  the 
first  of  a  long  and  varied  series,  extending  unto  the  advent 
of  Amy,  to  whom  the  blessing  of  Heaven.  Susan  was  a 
stout  and  elderly  female,  liable  to  sudden  fits  of  sleepi- 
ness, the  result,  we  were  given  to  understand,  of  trouble ; 
but  her  heart,  it  was  her  own  proud  boast,  was  always  in 
the  right  place.  She  could  never  look  at  my  father  and 
mother  sitting  anywhere  near  each  other  but  she  must 
flop  down  and  weep  awhile ;  the  sight  of  connubial  bliss  al- 
ways reminding  her,  so  she  would  explain,  of  the  past 
glories  of  her  own  married  state. 


32  Paul  Kelver 

Though  an  earnest  enquirer,  I  was  never  able  myself  to 
grasp  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  past  married  life  of  Susan's. 
Whether  her  answers  were  purposely  framed  to  elude 
curiosity,  or  whether  they  were  the  result  of  a  naturally 
incoherent  mind,  I  cannot  say.  Their  tendency  was  to  con- 
vey confusion. 

On  Monday  I  have  seen  Susan  shed  tears  of  regret  into 
the  Brussels  sprouts,  that  she  had  been  debarred  by  the 
pressure  of  other  duties  from  lately  watering  "his"  grave, 
which,  I  gathered,  was  at  Manor  Park.  While  on  Tues- 
day I  have  listened,  blood  chilled,  to  the  recital  of  her 
intentions  should  she  ever  again  enjoy  the  luxury  of  get- 
ting her  fingers  near  the  scruff  of  his  neck. 

"But,  I  thought,  Susan,  he  was  dead,"  was  my  very 
natural  comment  upon  this  outbreak. 

"So  did  I,  Master  Paul,"  was  Susan's  rejoinder;  "that 
was  his  artfulness." 

"Then  he  isn't  buried  in  Manor  Park  Cemetery  ?"    . 

"Not  yet ;  but  he'll  wish  he  was,  the  half-baked  monkey, 
when  I  get  hold  of  him." 

"Then  he  wasn't  a  good  man?" 

"Who?" 

"Your  husband." 

"Who  says  he  ain't  a  good  man?"  It  was  Susan's  fly- 
ing leaps  from  tense  to  tense  that  most  bewildered  me. 
"If  anybody  says  he  ain't  I'll  gouge  their  eye  out !" 

I  hastened  to  assure  Susan  that  my  observation  had 
been  intended  in  the  nature  of  enquiry,  not  of  assertion. 

"Brings  me  a  bottle  of  gin — for  my  headaches — every 
time  he  comes  home,"  continued  Susan,  showing  cause  for 
opinion,  "every  blessed  time." 

And  at  some  such  point  as  this  I  would  retire  to  the 
clearer  atmosphere  of  German  grammar  or  mixed  frac- 
tions. 

We  suffered  a  good  deal  from  Susan  one  way  and  an- 
other; for  having  regard  to  the  admirable  position  of  her 
heart,  we  all  felt  it  our  duty  to  overlook  mere  failings  of 


The  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth      33 

the  flesh — all  but  my  aunt,  that  is,  who  never  made  any 
pretence  of  being  a  sentimentalist. 

.  ''She's  a  lazy  hussy,"  was  the  opinion  expressed  of  her 
one  morning  by  my  aunt,  who  was  rinsing;  "a  gulping, 
snorting,  lazy  hussy,  that's  what  she  is."  There  was  some 
excuse  for  my  aunt's  indignation.  It  was  then  eleven 
o'clock  and  Susan  was  still  sleeping  off  an  attack  of  what 
she  called  "new-ralgy." 

"She  has  seen  a  good  deal  of  trouble,"  said  my  mother, 
who  was  wiping. 

"And  if  she  was  my  cook  and  housemaid,"  replied  my 
aunt,  "she  would  see  more,  the  slut !" 

"She's  not  a  good  servant  in  many  respects,"  admitted 
my  mother,  "but  I  think  she's  good-hearted." 

"Oh,  drat  her  heart,"  was  my  aunt's  retort.  "The  right 
place  for  that  heart  of  hers  is  on  the  doorstep.  And  that's 
where  I'd  put  it,  and  her  and  her  box  alongside  it,  if  I  had 
my  way." 

The  departure  of  Susan  did  take  place  not  long  after- 
wards. It  occurred  one  Saturday  night.  My  mother 
came  upstairs  looking  pale. 

"Luke/'  she  said,  "do  please  run  for  the  doctor." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  my  father. 

"Susan,"  gasped  my  mother,  "she's  lying  on  the  kitchen 
floor  breathing  in  the  strangest  fashion  and  quite  unable  to 
speak." 

"I'll  go  for  Washburn,"  said  my  father ;  "if  I  am  quick 
I  shall  catch  him  at  the  dispensary." 

Five  minutes  later  my  father  came  back  panting,  fol- 
lowed by  the  doctor.  This  was  a  big,  black-bearded  man ; 
added  to  which  he  had  the  knack  of  looking  bigger  than 
even  he  really  was.  He  came  down  the  kitchen  stairs  two 
at  a  time,  shaking  the  whole  house.  He  brushed  my 
mother  aside,  and  bent  over  the  unconscious  Susan,  who 
was  on  her  back  with  her  mouth  wide  open.  Then  he 
rose  and  looked  at  my  father  and  mother,  who  were  watch- 
ing him  with  troubled  faces;  and  then  he  opened  his 


34  Paul  Kelver 

mouth,  and  there  came  from  it  a  roar  of  laughter,  the 
like  of  which  sound  I  had  never  heard. 

The  next  moment  he  had  seized  a  pail  half  full  of 
water  and  had  flung  it  over  the  woman.  She  opened  her 
eyes  and  sat  up. 

"Feeling  better  ?"  said  the  doctor,  with  the  pail  still  in 
his  hand ;  ''have  another  dose?" 

Susan  began  to  gather  herself  together  with  the  evident 
intention  of  expressing  her  feelings ;  but  before  she  could 
find  the  first  word,  he  had  pushed  the  three  of  us  outside 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  us. 

From  the  top  of  the  stairs  we  could  hear  Susan's  thick, 
rancorous  voice  raging  fiercer  and  fiercer,  drowned  every 
now  and  then  by  the  man's  savage  roar  of  laughter.  And, 
when  for  want  of  breath  she  would  flag  for  a  moment,  he 
would  yell  out  encouragement  to  her,  shouting:  "Bravo! 
Go  it,  my  beauty,  give  it  tongue !  Bark,  bark !  I  love  to 
hear  you,"  applauding  her,  clapping  his  hands  and  stamp- 
ing his  feet. 

"What  a  beast  of  a  man,"  said  my  mother. 

"He  is  really  a  most  interesting  man  when  you  come  to 
know  him,"  explained  my  father. 

Replied  my  mother,  stiffly :  "I  don't  ever  mean  to  know 
him."  But  it  is  only  concerning  the  past  that  we  possess 
knowledge. 

The  riot  from  below  ceased  at  length,  and  was  followed 
by  a  new  voice,  speaking  quietly  and  emphatically,  and 
then  we  heard  the  doctor's  step  again  upon  the  stairs. 

My  mother  held  her  purse  open  in  her  hand,  and  as  the 
man  entered  the  room  she  went  forward  to  meet  him. 

"How  much  do  we  owe  you,  Doctor?"  said  my  mother. 
She  spoke  in  a  voice  trembling  with  severity. 

He  closed  the  purse  and  gently  pushed  it  back  towards 
her. 

"A  glass  of  beer  and  a  chop,  Mrs.  Kelver,"  he 
answered,  "which  I  am  coming  back  in  an  hour  to  cook 
for  myself.    And  as  you  will  be  without  any  servant,"  he 


The  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth      35 

continued,  while  my  mother  stood  staring  at  him  incapable 
of  utterance,  "you  had  better  let  me  cook  some  for  you  at 
the  same  time.    I  am  an  expert  at  grilling  chops." 

"But,  really,  Doctor — "  my  mother  began.  He  laid 
his  huge  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  my  mother  sat 
down  upon  the  nearest  chair. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "she's  a  person  you  never 
ought  to  have  had  inside  your  house.  She's  promised  me 
to  be  gone  in  half  an  hour,  and  I'm  coming  back  to  see  she 
keeps  her  word.  Give  her  a  month's  wages,  and  have  a 
clear  fire  ready  for  me."  And  before  my  mother  could 
reply,  he  had  slammed  the  front  door. 

"What  a  very  odd  sort  of  a  man,"  said  my  mother,  re- 
covering herself. 

"He's  a  character,"  said  my  father;  "you  might  not 
think  it,  but  he's  worshipped  about  here." 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  him,"  said  my  mother ; 
"I  suppose  I  had  better  go  out  and  get  some  chops ;"  which 
she  did. 

Susan  went,  as  sober  as  a  judge,  on  Friday,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  her  great  anxiety  being  to  get  out  of  the  house 
before  the  doctor  returned.  The  doctor  himself  arrived 
true  to  his  time,  and  I  lay  awake — for  no  human  being 
ever  slept  or  felt  he  wanted  to  sleep  while  Dr.  Washburn 
was  anywhere  near — and  listened  to  the  gusts  of  laugh- 
ter that  swept  continually  through  the  house.  Even  my 
aunt  laughed  that  supper  time,  and  when  the  doctor  him- 
self laughed  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  bed  shook  under 
me.  Not  liking  to  be  out  of  it,  I  did  what  spoilt  little  boys 
and  even  spoilt  little  girls  sometimes  will  do  under  similar 
stress  of  feeling,  wrapped  the  blanket  round  my  legs  and 
pattered  down,  with  my  face  set  to  express  the  sudden 
desire  of  a  sensitive  and  possibly  short-lived  child  for 
parents'  love.  My  mother  pretended  to  be  angry,  but  that 
I  knew  was  only  her  company  manners.  Besides,  I  really 
had,  if  not  exactly  a  pain,  an  extremely  uncomfortable 
sensation  (one  common  to  me  about  that  period)  as  of 


36  Paul  Kelver 

having  swallowed  the  dome  of  St.  Paurs.  The  doctor  said 
it  was  a  frequent  complaint  with  children,  the  result  of  too 
early  hours  and  too  much  study;  and,  taking  me  on  his 
knee,  wrote  then  and  there  a  diet  chart  for  me,  which 
included  one  tablespoonful  of  golden  syrup  four  times  a 
day,  and  one  ounce  of  sherbet  to  be  placed  upon  the 
tongue  and  taken  neat  ten  minutes  before  each  meal. 

That  evening  will  always  live  in  my  remembrance. 
My  mother  was  brighter  than  I  had  ever  seen  her.  A 
flush  was  on  her  cheek  and  a  sparkle  in  her  eye,  and  look- 
ing across  at  her  as  she  sat  holding  a  small  painted  screen 
to  shield  her  face  from  the  fire,  the  sense  of  beauty  became 
suddenly  born  within  me,  and  answering  an  impulse  I 
could  not  have  explained,  I  slipped  down,  still  with  my 
blanket  around  me,  from  the  doctor's  knee,  and  squatted 
on  the  edge  of  the  fender,  from  where,  when  I  thought  no 
one  was  noticing  me,  I  could  steal  furtive  glances  up  into 
her  face. 

So  also  my  father  seemed  to  me  to  have  become  all  at 
once  bigger  and  more  dignified,  talking  with  a  vigour  and 
an  enjoyment  that  sat  newly  on  him.  Aunt  Fan  was  quite 
witty  and  agreeable — for  her;  and  even  I  asked  one  or 
two  questions,  at  which,  for  some  reason  or  another,  every- 
body laughed ;  which  determined  me  to  remember  and  ask 
those  same  questions  again  on  some  future  occasion. 

That  was  the  great  charm  of  the  man,  that  by  the  mag- 
netic spell  of  his  magnificent  vitality  he  drew  from  every- 
one their  best.  In  his  company  clever  people  waxed  intel- 
lectual giants,  while  the  dull  sat  amazed  at  their  own 
originality.  Conversing  with  him,  Podsnap  might  have 
been  piquant,  Dogberry  incisive.  But  better  than  all  else, 
I  found  it  listening  to  his  own  talk.  Of  what  he  spoke  I 
could  tell  you  no  more  than  could  the  children  of  Hamelin 
have  told  the  tune  the  Pied  Piper  played.  I  only  know 
that  at  the  tangled  music  of  his  strong  voice  the  walls  of 
the  mean  room  faded  away,  and  that  beyond  I  saw  a  brave, 
laughing  world  that  called  to  me ;  a  world  full  of  joyous 


The  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth      37 

fight,  where  some  won  and  some  lost.  But  that  mattered 
not  a  jot,  because  whatever  else  came  of  it  there  was  a 
right  royal  game  for  all ;  a  world  where  merry  gentlemen 
feared  neither  life  nor  death,  and  Fate  was  but  the  Master 
of  the  Revels. 

Such  was  my  first  introduction  to  Dr.  Washburn,  or  to 
give  him  the  name  by  which  he  was  known  in  every  slum 
and  alley  of  that  quarter.  Dr.  Fighting  Hal;  and  in  a 
minor  key  that  evening  was  an  index  to  the  whole  man. 
Often  he  would  wrinkle  his  nose  as  a  dog  before  it  bites, 
and  then  he  was  more  brute  than  man — ^brutish  in  his  in- 
stincts, in  his  appetites,  brutish  in  his  pleasure,  brutish  in 
his  fun.  Or  his  deep  blue  eyes  would  grow  soft  as  a 
mother's,  and  then  you  might  have  thought  him  an  angel 
in  a  soft  felt  hat  and  a  coat  so  loose-fitting  as  to  suggest 
the  possibility  of  his  wings  being  folded  away  underneath. 
Often  have  I  tried  to  make  up  my  mind  whether  it  has 
been  better  for  me  or  worse  that  I  ever  came  to  know  him ; 
but  as  easy  would  it  be  for  the  tree  to  say  whether  the 
rushing  winds  and  the  wild  rains  have  shaped  it  or  mis- 
shaped. 

Susan's  place  remained  vacant  for  some  time.  My 
mother  would  explain  to  the  few  friends  who  occasion- 
ally came  from  afar  to  see  us,  that  her  "housemaid"  she 
had  been  compelled  to  suddenly  discharge,  and  that  we 
were  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  a  new  and  better  specimen. 
But  the  months  passed  and  we  still  waited,  and  my  father 
on  the  rare  days  when  a  client  would  ring  the  office  bell, 
would,  after  pausing  a  decent  interval,  open  the  front 
door  himself,  and  then  call  downstairs  indignantly  and 
loudly,  to  know  why  "Jane"  or  "Mary"  could  not  attend 
to  their  work.  And  my  mother,  that  the  bread-boy  or  the 
milkman  might  not  put  it  about  the  neighbourhood  that 
the  Kelvers  in  the  big  corner  house  kept  no  servant,  would 
hide  herself  behind  a  thick  veil  and  fetch  all  things  herself 
from  streets  a  long  way  off. 

For  this  family  of  whom  I  am  writing  were,  I  confess, 


38  Paul  Kelver 

weak  and  human.  Their  poverty  they  were  ashamed  of  as 
though  it  were  a  crime,  and  in  consequence  their  Hfe  was 
more  full  of  paltry  and  useless  subterfuge  than  should  be 
perhaps  the  life  of  brave  men  and  women.  The  larder,  I 
fancy,  was  very  often  bare,  but  the  port  and  sherry  with 
the  sweet  biscuits  stood  always  on  the  sideboard ;  and  the 
fire  had  often  to  be  low  in  the  grate  that  my  father's  tall 
hat  might  shine  resplendent  and  my  mother's  black  silk 
rustle  on  Sundays. 

But  I  would  not  have  you  sneer  at  them,  thinking  all 
pretence  must  spring  from  snobbishness  and  never  from 
mistaken  self-respect.  Some  fine  gentleman  writers  there 
be — men  whose  world  is  bounded  on  the  east  by  Bond 
Street — who  see  in  the  struggles  of  poverty  to  hide  its 
darns  only  matter  for  jest.  But  myself,  I  cannot  laugh  at 
them.  I  know  the  long  hopes  and  fears  that  centre  round 
the  hired  waiter;  the  long  cost  of  the  cream  and  the  ice 
jelly  ordered  the  week  before  from  the  confectioner's. 
But  to  me  it  is  pathetic,  not  ridiculous.  Heroism  is  not 
all  of  one  pattern.  Dr.  Washburn,  had  the  Prince  of 
Wales  come  to  see  him,  would  have  put  his  bread  and 
cheese  and  jug  of  beer  upon  the  table,  and  helped  His 
Royal  Highness  to  half.  But  my  father  and  mother's  tea 
was  very  weak  that  Mr.  Jones  or  Mr.  Smith  might  have  a 
glass  of  wine  should  they  come  to  dinner.  I  remember  the 
one  egg  for  breakfast,  my  mother  arguing  that  my  father 
should  have  it  because  he  had  his  business  to  attend  to; 
my  father  insisting  that  my  mother  should  eat  it,  she  hav- 
ing to  go  out  shopping,  a  compromise  being  effected  by 
their  dividing  it  between  them,  each  clamouring  for  the 
white  as  the  most  nourishing.  And  I  know  however  little 
the  meal  looked  upon  the  table  when  we  started  I  always 
rose  well  satisfied.  These  are  small  things  to  speak  of,  but 
then  you  must  bear  in  mind  this  is  a  story  moving  in 
narrow  ways. 

To  me  this  life  came  as  a  good  time.  That  I  was  en- 
couraged to  eat  treacle  in  preference  to  butter  seemed  to 


The  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth      39 

me  admirable.  Personally,  I  preferred  sausages  for  din- 
ner; and  a  supper  of  fried  fish  and  potatoes,  brought  in 
stealthily  in  a  carpet  bag,  was  infinitely  more  enjoyable 
than  the  set  meal  where  nothing  was  of  interest  till  one 
came  to  the  dessert.  What  fun  there  was  about  it  all! 
The  cleaning  of  the  doorstep  by  night,  when  from  the  ill- 
lit  street  a  gentleman  with  a  piece  of  sacking  round  his 
legs  might  very  well  pass  for  a  somewhat  tall  charwoman. 
I  would  keep  watch  at  the  gate  to  give  warning  should 
any  one  looking  like  a  possible  late  caller  turn  the  corner 
of  the  street,  coming  back  now  and  then  in  answer  to  a 
low  whistle  to  help  my  father  grope  about  in  the  dark  for 
the  hearthstone ;  he  was  always  mislaying  the  hearthstone. 
How  much  better,  helping  to  clean  the  knives  or  running 
errands  than  wasting  all  one's  morning  dwelling  upon  the 
shocking  irregularity  of  certain  classes  of  French  verbs ; 
or  making  useless  calculations  as  to  how  long  X,  walking 
four  and  a  quarter  miles  an  hour,  would  be  overtaking  Y, 
whose  powers  were  limited  to  three  and  a  half,  but  who 
had  started  two  and  three  quarter  hours  sooner ;  the  whole 
argument  being  reduced  to  sheer  pedantry  by  reason  of  no 
information  being  afforded  to  the  student  concerning  the 
respective  thirstiness  of  X  and  Y. 

Even  my  father  and  mother  were  able  to  take  it  lightly 
with  plenty  of  laughter  and  no  groaning  that  I  ever  heard. 
For  over  all  lay  the  morning  light  of  hope,  and  what  pris- 
oner, escaping  from  his  dungeon,  ever  stayed  to  think  of 
his  torn  hands  and  knees  when  beyond  the  distant  opening 
he  could  see  the  sunlight  glinting  through  the  brambles  ? 

"I  had  no  idea,"  said  my  mother,  "there  was  so  much 
to  do  in  a  house.  In  future  I  shall  arrange  for  the  ser- 
vants to  have  regular  hours,  and  a  little  time  to  them- 
selves, for  rest.    Don't  you  think  it  right,  Luke  ?" 

"Quite  right,"  replied  my  father ;  "and  I'll  tell  you  an- 
other thing  we'll  do.  I  shall  insist  on  the  landlord's  put- 
ting a  marble  doorstep  to  the  next  house  we  take;  you 
pass  a  sponge  over  marble  and  it  is  always  clean." 


40  Paul  Kelver 

"Or  tesselated/'  suggested  my  mother. 

"Or  tesselated,"  agreed  my  father ;  "but  marble  is  more 
uncommon." 

Only  once,  can  I  recall  a  cloud.  That  was  one  Sunday 
when  my  mother,  speaking  across  the  table  in  the  middle 
of  dinner,  said  to  my  father,  "We  might  save  the  rest  of 
that  stew,  Luke ;  there's  an  omelette  coming." 

My  father  laid  down  the  spoon.    "An  omelette !" 

"Yes,"  said  my  mother.  "I  thought  I  would  like  to  try 
again." 

My  father  stepped  into  the  back  kitchen— we  dined  in 
the  kitchen,  as  a  rule,  it  saved  much  carriage — returning 
with  the  wood  chopper. 

"What  ever  are  you  going  to  do,  Luke,  with  the  chop- 
per ?"  said  my  mother. 

"Divide  the  omelette,"  replied  my  father. 

My  mother  began  to  cry. 

"Why,  Maggie — !"  said  my  father. 

"I  know  the  other  one  was  leathery,"  said  my  mother, 
"but  it  was  the  fault  of  the  oven,  you  know  it  was,  Luke." 

"My  dear,"  said  my  father,  "I  only  meant  it  as  a  joke." 

"I  don't  like  that  sort  of  joke,"  said  my  mother;  "it  isn't 
nice  of  you,  Luke." 

I  don't  think,  to  be  candid,  my  mother  liked  much  any 
joke  that  was  against  herself.  Indeed,  when  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  I  have  never  met  a  woman  who  did,  nor  man, 
either. 

There  had  soon  grown  up  a  comradeship  between  my 
father  and  myself,  for  he  was  the  youngest  thing  I  had 
met  with  as  yet.  Sometimes  my  mother  seemed  very 
young,  and  later  I  met  boys  and  girls  nearer  to  my 
own  age  in  years;  but  they  grew,  while  my  father  re- 
mained always  the  same.  The  hair  about  his  temples  was 
turning  grey,  and  when  you  looked  close  you  saw  many 
crow's  feet  and  lines,  especially  about  the  mouth.  But  his 
eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  boy,  his  laugh  the  laugh  of  a  boy. 


The  Man  with  the  Ugly  Mouth      41 

and  his  heart  the  heart  of  a  boy.  So  we  were  very  close 
to  each  other. 

In  a  narrow  strip  of  ground  we  called  our  garden  we 
would  play  a  cricket  of  our  own,  encompassed  about  by 
many  novel  rules,  rendered  necessary  by  the  locality.  For 
instance,  all  hitting  to  leg  was  forbidden,  as  tending  to 
endanger  neighbouring  windows,  while  hitting  to  off  was 
likewise  not  to  be  encouraged,  as  causing  a  temporary  ad- 
journment of  the  game,  while  batter  and  bowler  went 
through  the  house  and  out  into  the  street  to  recover  the 
ball  from  some  predatory  crowd  of  urchins  to  whom  it  had 
evidently  appeared  as  a  gift  direct  from  Heaven.  Some- 
times rising  very  early  we  would  walk  across  the  marshes 
to  bathe  in  a  small  creek  that  led  down  to  the  river,  but 
this  was  muddy  work,  necessitating  much  washing  of  legs 
on  the  return  home.  And  on  rare  days  we  would,  taking 
the  train  to  Hackney  and  walking  to  the  bridge,  row  up 
the  river  Lea,  perhaps  as  far  as  Ponder's  End. 

But  these  sports  being  hedged  around  with  difficulties, 
more  commonly  for  recreation  we  would  take  long  walks. 
There  were  pleasant  nooks  even  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Plaistow  marshes  in  those  days.  Here  and  there  a  grace- 
ful elm  still  clung  to  the  troubled  soil.  Surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  hideousness,  picturesque  inns  still  remained  hid- 
den within  green  walls  where,  if  you  were  careful  not  to 
pry  too  curiously,  you  might  sit  and  sip  your  glass  of  beer 
beneath  the  oak  and  dream  yourself  where  reeking  chim- 
neys and  mean  streets  were  not.  During  such  walks  my 
father  would  talk  to  me  as  he  would  talk  to  my  mother, 
telling  me  all  his  wild,  hopeful  plans,  discussing  with  me 
how  I  was  to  lodge  at  Oxford,  to  what  particular  branches 
of  study  and  of  sport  I  was  to  give  my  preference,  speak- 
ing always  with  such  catching  confidence  that  I  came  to 
regard  my  sojourn  in  this  brick  and  mortar  prison  as  only 
a  question  of  months. 

One  day,  talking  of  this  future,  and  laughing  as  we 


42  Paul  Kelver 

walked  briskly  through  the  shrill  streets,  I  told  him  the 
words  my  mother  had  said — long  ago,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
for  life  is  as  a  stone  rolling  down-hill,  and  moves  but 
slowly  at  first ;  she  and  I  sitting  on  the  moss  at  the  foot 
of  old  "Jacob's  Folly" — that  he  was  our  Prince  fighting 
to  deliver  us  from  the  grim  castle  called  "Hard  Times," 
guarded  by  the  dragon  Poverty. 

My  father  laughed  and  his  boyish  face  flushed  with 
pleasure. 

"And  she  was  right,  Paul,"  he  whispered,  pressing  my 
small  hand  in  his — it  was  necessary  to  whisper,  for  the 
street  where  we  were  was  very  crowded,  but  I  knew  that 
he  wanted  to  shout.  "I  will  fight  him  and  I  will  slay  him." 
My  father  made  passes  in  the  air  with  his  walking-stick, 
and  it  was  evident  from  the  way  they  drew  aside  that  the 
people  round  about  fancied  he  was  mad.  "I  will  batter 
down  the  iron  gates  and  she  shall  be  free.  I  will,  God 
help  me,  I  will." 

The  gallant  gentleman !  How  long  and  how  bravely  he 
fought !  But  in  the  end  it  was  the  Dragon  triumphed,  the 
Knight  that  lay  upon  the  ground,  his  great  heart  still.  I 
have  read  how,  with  the  sword  of  Honest  Industry,  one 
may  always  conquer  this  grim  Dragon.  But  such  was  in 
foolish  books.  In  truth,  only  with  the  sword  of  Chicanery 
and  the  stout  buckler  of  Unscrupulousness  shall  you  be 
certain  of  victory  over  him.  If  you  care  not  to  use  these, 
pray  to  your  Gods,  and  take  what  comes  with  a  stout 
heart. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOW  GOOD  LUCK  KNOCKED  AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  MAN  IN 

GREY. 

"Louisa!"  roared  my  father  down  the  kitchen  stairs, 
"are  you  all  asleep?  Here  have  I  had  to  answer  the  front 
door  myself."  Then  my  father  strode  into  his  office,  and 
the  door  slammed.  My  father  could  be  very  angry  when 
nobody  was  by. 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  his  bell  rang  with  a  quick, 
authoritative  jangle.  My  mother,  who  was  peeling 
potatoes  with  difficulty  in  wash-leather  gloves,  looked  at 
my  aunt  who  was  shelling  peas.  The  bell  rang  again 
louder  still  this  time. 

"Once  for  Louisa,  twice  for  James,  isn't  it?"  enquired 
my  aunt. 

"You  go,  Paul,"  said  my  mother ;  "say  that  Louisa — " 
but  with  the  words  a  sudden  flush  overspread  my  mother's 
face,  and  before  I  could  lay  down  my  slate  she  had  drawn 
off  her  gloves  and  had  passed  me.  "No,  don't  stop  your 
lessons,  I'll  go  myself,"  she  said,  and  ran  out. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  kitchen  door  opened  softly,  and 
my  mother's  hand,  appearing  through  the  jar,  beckoned  to 
me  mysteriously. 

"Walk  on  your  toes,"  whispered  my  mother,  setting  the 
example  as  she  led  the  way  up  the  stairs ;  which  after  the 
manner  of  stairs  showed  their  disapproval  of  deception  by 
creaking  louder  and  more  often  than  under  any  other 
circumstances ;  and  in  this  manner  we  reached  my  parents' 
bedroom,  where,  in  the  old-fashioned  wardrobe,  relic  of 


44  Paul  Kelver 

better  'days,  reposed  my  best  suit  of  clothes,  or,  to  be 
strictly  grammatical,  my  better. 

Never  before  had  I  worn  these  on  a  week-day  morning, 
but  all  conversation  not  germane  to  the  question  of  get- 
ting into  them  quickly  my  mother  swept  aside ;  and  when 
I  was  complete,  down  even  to  the  new  shoes — Bluchers, 
we  called  them  in  those  days — ^took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
together  we  crept  down  as  we  had  crept  up,  silent,  stealthy 
and  alert.  My  mother  led  me  to  the  street  door  and  opened 
it. 

"Shan't  I  want  my  cap  ?"  I  whispered.  But  my  mother 
only  shook  her  head  and  closed  the  door  with  a  bang ;  and 
then  the  explanation  of  the  pantomime  came  to  me,  for 
with  such  "business" — comic,  shall  I  call  it,  or  tragic  ? — I 
was  becoming  familiar;  and,  my  mother's  hand  upon 
my  shoulder,  we  entered  my  father's  office. 

Whether  from  the  fact  that  so  often  of  an  evening — our 
drawing-room  being  reserved  always  as  a  show-room  in 
case  of  chance  visitors ;  Cowper's  poems,  open  face-down- 
wards on  the  wobbly  loo  table;  the  half-finished  crochet 
work,  suggestive  of  elegant  leisure,  thrown  carelessly  over 
the  arm  of  the  smaller  easy-chair — this  office  would  be- 
come our  sitting-room,  its  books  and  papers,  as  things  of 
no  account,  being  huddled  out  of  sight ;  or  whether  from 
the  readiness  with  which  my  father  would  come  out  of  it 
at  all  times  to  play  at  something  else — at  cricket  in  the 
back  garden  on  dry  days  or  ninepins  in  the  passage  on 
wet,  charging  back  into  it  again  whenever  a  knock 
sounded  at  the  front  door,  I  cannot  say.  But  I  know  that 
as  a  child  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  regard  my  father's 
profession  as  a  serious  affair.  To  me  he  was  merely  play- 
ing there,  surrounded  by  big  books  and  bundles  of  docu- 
ments, labelled  profusely  but  consisting  only  of  blank 
papers;  by  japanned  tin  boxes,  lettered  imposingly,  but 
for  the  most  part  empty.  "Sutton  Hampden,  Esq.,"  I 
remember  was  practically  my  mother's  work-box.  The 
"Drayton  Estates"  yielded  apparently  nothing  but  apples, 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     45 

a  fruit  of  which  my  father  was  fond ;  while  "Mortgages" 
it  was  not  until  later  in  life  I  discovered  had  no  connec- 
tion with  poems  in  manuscript,  some  in  course  of  cor- 
rection, others  completed. 

Now,  as  the  door  opened,  he  rose  and  came  towards  us. 
His  hair  stood  up  from  his  head,  for  it  was  a  habit  of  his 
to  rumple  it  as  he  talked;  and  this  added  to  his  evident 
efforts  to  compose  his  face  into  an  expression  of  business- 
like gravity,  added  emphasis,  if  such  were  needed,  to  the 
suggestion  of  the  over  long  schoolboy  making  believe. 

"This  is  the  youngster,"  said  my  father,  taking  me  from 
my  mother,  and  passing  me  on.  "Tall  for  his  age,  isn't 
he?" 

With  a  twist  of  his  thick  lips,  he  rolled  the  evil-smell- 
ing cigar  he  was  smoking  from  the  left  corner  of  his 
mouth  to  the  right ;  and  held  out  a  fat  and  not  too  clean 
hand,  which,  as  it  closed  round  mine,  brought  to  my  mind 
the  picture  of  the  walrus  in  my  natural  history  book ;  with 
the  other  he  flapped  me  kindly  on  the  head. 

"Like  'is  mother,  wonderfully  like  'is  mother,  ain't  'e?" 
he  observed,  still  holding  my  hand.  "And  that,"  he  added 
with  a  wink  of  one  of  his  small  eyes  towards  my  father,  "is 
about  the  'ighest  compliment  I  can  pay  'im,  eh  ?" 

His  eyes  were  remarkably  small,  but  marvellously 
bright  and  piercing ;  so  much  so  that  when  he  turned  them 
again  upon  me  I  tried  to  think  quickly  of  something  nice 
about  him,  feeling  sure  that  he  could  see  right  into  me. 

"And  where  are  you  thinkin'  of  sendin'  'im?"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "Eton  or  'Arrow  ?" 

"We  haven't  quite  made  up  our  minds  as  yet,"  replied 
my  father ;  "at  present  we  are  educating  him  at  home." 

"You  take  my  tip,"  said  the  fat  man,  "and  learn  all  you 
can.  Look  at  me !  If  I'd  'ad  the  opportunity  of  being  a 
schollard  I  wouldn't  be  here  offering  your  father  an  ex- 
travagant price  for  doin'  my  work;  I'd  be  able  to  do  it 
myself." 

"You  seem  to  have  got  on  very  well  without  it,"  laughed 


46  Paul  Kelver 

my  father ;  and  in  truth  his  air  of  prosperity  might  have 
justified  greater  self-complacency.  Rings  sparkled  on  his 
blunt  fingers,  and  upon  the  swelling  billows  of  his  waist- 
coat rose  and  sank  a  massive  gold  cable. 

"I'd  'ave  done  better  with  it/'  he  grunted. 

"But  you  look  very  clever,"  I  said ;  and  though  divining 
with  a  child's  cuteness  that  it  was  desired  I  should  make  a 
favourable  impression  upon  him,  I  hoped  this  would 
please  him,  the  words  were  yet  spontaneous. 

He  laughed  heartily,  his  whole  body  shaking  like  some 
huge  jelly. 

"Well,  old  Noel  Hasluck's  not  exactly  a  fool,"  he  as- 
sented, "but  I'd  like  myself  better  if  I  could  talk  about 
something  else  than  business,  and  didn't  drop  my  aitches. 
And  so  would  my  little  gell." 

"You  have  a  daughter?"  asked  my  mother,  with  whom 
a  child,  as  a  bond  of  sympathy  with  the  stranger  took  the 
place  assigned  by  most  women  to  disrespectful  cooks  and 
incompetent  housemaids. 

"I  won't  tell  you  about  'er.  But  I'll  just  bring  'er  to 
see  you  now  and  then,  ma'am,  if  you  don't  mind," 
answered  Mr.  Hasluck.  "She  don't  often  meet  gentle- 
folks, an'  it'll  do  'er  good." 

My  mother  glanced  across  at  my  father,  but  the  man, 
intercepting  her  question,  replied  to  it  himself. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  ma'am,  that  she's  anything 
like  me,"  he  assured  her  quite  good-temperedly ;  "nobody 
ever  believes  she's  my  daughter,  except  me  and  the  old 
woman.  She's  a  little  lady,  she  is.  Freak  o'  nature,  I  call 
it." 

"We  shall  be  delighted,"  explained  my  mother. 

"Well,  you  will  when  you  see  'er,"  replied  Mr.  Hasluck, 
quite  contentedly. 

He  pushed  half-a-crown  into  my  hand,  overriding  my 
parents'  susceptibilities  with  the  easy  good-temper  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  have  his  way  in  all  things. 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     47 

"No  squanderin'  it  on  the  'eathen/'  was  his  parting 
injunction  as  I  left  the  room ;  "you  spend  that  on  a  Chris- 
tian tradesman." 

It  was  the  first  money  I  ever  remember  having  to  spend, 
that  half-crown  of  old  Hasluck's ;  suggestions  of  the  de- 
lights to  be  derived  from  a  new  pair  of  gloves  for  Sunday, 
from  a  Latin  grammar,  which  would  then  be  all  my  own, 
and  so  on,  having  hitherto  displaced  all  less  exalted 
visions  concerning  the  disposal  of  chance  coins  coming 
into  my  small  hands.  But  on  this  occasion  I  was  left  free 
to  decide  for  myself. 

The  anxiety  it  gave  me !  the  long  tossing  hours  in  bed ! 
the  tramping  of  the  bewildering  streets !  Even  advice 
when  asked  for  was  denied  me. 

"You  must  learn  to  think  for  yourself,"  said  my  father, 
who  spoke  eloquently  on  the  necessity  of  early  acquiring 
sound  judgment  and  what  he  called  "commercial  apti- 
tude." 

"No,  dear,"  said  my  mother,  "Mr.  Hasluck  wanted  you 
to  spend  it  as  you  like.  If  I  told  you,  that  would  be  spend- 
ing it  as  I  liked.  Your  father  and  I  want  to  see  what  you 
will  do  with  it." 

The  good  little  boys  in  the  books  bought  presents  or 
gave  away  to  people  in  distress.  For  this  I  hated  them 
with  the  malignity  the  lower  nature  ever  feels  towards  the 
higher.    I  consulted  my  aunt  Fan. 

"If  somebody  gave  you  half-a-crown,"  I  put  it  to  her, 
"what  would  you  buy  with  it  ?" 

"Side-combs,"  said  my  aunt ;  she  was  always  losing  or 
breaking  her  side-combs. 

"But  I  mean  if  you  were  me,"  I  explained. 

"Drat  the  child !"  said  my  aunt ;  "how  do  I  know  what 
he  wants  if  he  don't  know  himself.    Idiot !" 

The  shop  windows  into  which  I  stared,  my  nose  glued 
to  the  pane !  The  things  I  asked  the  price  of !  The  things 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  buy  and  then  decided  that  I 


48  Paul  Kelver 

wouldn*t  buy!  Even  my  patient  mother  began  to  show 
signs  of  irritation.  It  was  rapidly  assuming  the  dimen- 
sions of  a  family  curse,  was  old  Hasluck's  half-crown. 

Then  one  day  I  made  up  my  mind,  and  so  ended  the 
trouble.  In  the  window  of  a  small  plumber's  shop  in  a 
back  street  near,  stood  on  view  among  brass  taps,  rolls  of 
lead  piping  and  cistern  requisites,  various  squares  of  col- 
oured glass,  the  sort  of  thing  chiefly  used,  I  believe,  for 
lavatory  doors  and  staircase  windows.  Some  had  stars  in 
the  centre,  and  others,  more  elaborate,  were  enriched  with 
designs,  severe  but  inoffensive.  I  purchased  a  dozen  of 
these,  the  plumber,  an  affable  man  who  appeared  glad  to 
see  me,  throwing  in  two  extra  out  of  sheer  generosity. 

Why  I  bought  them  I  did  not  know  at  the  time,  and  I 
do  not  know  now.  My  mother  cried  when  she  saw  them. 
My  father  could  get  no  further  than :  "But  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  them  ?"  to  which  I  was  unable  to  reply. 
My  aunt,  alone,  attempted  comfort. 

"If  a  person  fancies  coloured  glass,"  said  my  aunt, 
"then  he's  a  fool  not  to  buy  coloured  glass  when  he  gets 
the  chance.    We  haven't  all  the  same  tastes." 

In  the  end,  I  cut  myself  badly  with  them  and  consented 
to  their  being  thrown  into  the  dust-bin.  But  looking  back, 
I  have  come  to  regard  myself  rather  as  the  victim  of  Fate 
than  of  Folly.  Many  folks  have  I  met  since,  recipients  of 
Hasluck's  half-crowns — many  a  man  who  has  slapped  his 
pocket  and  blessed  the  day  he  first  met  that  "Napoleon  of 
Finance,"  as  later  he  came  to  be  known  among  his  friends 
—but  it  ever  ended  so ;  coloured  glass  and  cut  fingers.  Is 
it  fairy  gold  that  he  and  his  kind  fling  round?  It  would 
seem  to  be. 

Next  time  old  Hasluck  knocked  at  our  front  door  a 
maid  in  cap  and  apron  opened  it  to  him,  and  this  was  but 
the  beginning  of  change.  New  oilcloth  glistened  in  the 
passage.  Lace  curtains,  such  as  in  that  neighbourhood 
were  the  hall-mark  of  the  plutocrat,  advertised  our  rising 
fortunes  to  the  street,  and  greatest  marvel  of  all,  at  least  to 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     49 

my  awed  eyes,  my  father's  Sunday  clothes  came  into  week- 
day wear,  new  ones  taking  their  place  in  the  great  ward- 
robe that  hitherto  had  been  the  stronghold  of  our  gen- 
tility; to  which  we  had  ever  turned  for  comfort  when 
rendered  despondent  by  contemplation  of  the  weakness  of 
our  outer  walls.  "Seeing  that  everything  was  all  right" 
is  how  my  mother  would  explain  it.  She  would  lay  the 
lilac  silk  upon  the  bed,  fondly  soothing  down  its  rustling 
undulations,  lingering  lovingly  over  its  deep  frosted 
flounces  of  rich  Honiton.  Maybe  she  had  entered  the 
room  weary  looking  and  depressed,  but  soon  there  would 
proceed  from  her  a  gentle  humming  as  from  some  small 
winged  thing  when  the  sun  first  touches  it  and  warms 
it,  and  sometimes  by  the  time  the  Indian  shawl,  which 
could  go  through  a  wedding  ring,  but  never  would  when  it 
was  wanted  to,  had  been  refolded  and  fastened  again  with 
the  great  cameo  brooch,  and  the  poke  bonnet,  like  some 
fractious  child,  shaken  and  petted  into  good  condition,  she 
would  be  singing  softly  to  herself,  nodding  her  head  to 
the  words :  which  were  generally  to  the  effect  that  some- 
body was  too  old  and  somebody  else  too  bold  and 
another  too  cold,  "so  he  wouldn't  do  for  me;"  and  step- 
ping lightly  as  though  the  burden  of  the  years  had  fallen 
from  her. 

One  evening — it  was  before  the  advent  of  this  Hasluck 
— I  remember  climbing  out  of  bed,  for  trouble  was  within 
me.  Creatures,  indescribable  but  heavy,  had  sat  upon  my 
chest,  after  which  I  had  fallen  downstairs,  slowly  and 
reasonably  for  the  first  few  hundred  flights,  then  with 
haste  for  the  next  million  miles  or  so,  until  I  found  myself 
in  the  street  with  nothing  on  but  my  nightshirt.  Per- 
sonally, I  was  shocked,  but  nobody  else  seemed  to  mind, 
and  I  hailed  a  two-penny  'bus  and  climbed  in.  But  when 
I  tried  to  pay  I  found  I  hadn't  any  pockets,  so  I  jumped 
out  and  ran  away  and  the  conductor  came  after  me.  My 
feet  were  like  lead,  and  with  every  step  he  gained  on  me, 
till  with  a  scream  I  made  one  mighty  effort  and  awoke. 


50  Paul  Kelver 

Feeling  the  need  of  comfort  after  these  unpleasant  but  ISy 
no  means  unfamiliar  experiences,  I  wrapped  some  clothes 
round  me  and  crept  downstairs.  The  "office"  was  dark, 
but  to  my  surprise  a  light  shone  from  under  the  drawing- 
room  door,  and  I  opened  it. 

The  candles  in  the  silver  candlesticks  were  lighted,  and 
in  state,  one  in  each  easy-chair,  sat  my  father  and  mother, 
both  in  their  best  clothes ;  my  father  in  the  buckled  shoes 
and  the  frilled  shirt  that  I  had  never  seen  him  wear  before, 
my  mother  with  the  Indian  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and 
upon  her  head  the  cap  of  ceremony  that  reposed  three 
hundred  and  sixty  days  out  of  the  year  in  its  round 
wicker-work  nest  lined  with  silk.  They  started  guiltily  as 
I  pushed  open  the  door,  but  I  congratulate  myself  that  I 
had  sense  enough — or  was  it  instinct — to  ask  no  ques- 
tions. 

The  last  time  I  had  seen  them,  three  hours  ago,  they 
had  been  engaged,  the  lights  carefully  extinguished,  clean- 
ing the  ground  floor  windows,  my  father  the  outside,  my 
mother  within,  and  it  astonished  me  the  change  not  only 
in  their  appearance,  but  in  their  manner  and  bearing,  and 
even  in  their  very  voices.  My  father  brought  over  from 
the  sideboard  the  sherry  and  sweet  biscuits  and  poured 
out  and  handed  a  glass  to  my  mother,  and  he  and  my 
mother  drank  to  each  other,  while  I  between  them  ate  the 
biscuits,  and  the  conversation  was  of  Byron's  poems  and 
the  great  glass  palace  in  Hyde  Park. 

I  wonder  am  I  disloyal  setting  this  down?  Maybe  to 
others  it  shows  but  a  foolish  man  and  woman,  and  that  is 
far  from  my  intention.  I  dwell  upon  such  trifles  because 
to  me  the  memory  of  them  is  very  tender.  The  virtues  of 
our  loved  ones  we  admire,  yet  after  all  'tis  but  what  we 
expected  of  them :  how  could  they  do  otherwise  ?  Their 
failings  we  would  forget;  no  one  of  us  is  perfect.  But 
over  their  follies  we  love  to  linger,  smiling. 

To  me  personally,  old  Hasluck's  coming  and  all  that  fol- 
lowed thereupon  made  perhaps  more  difference  than  to 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     51 

any  one  else.  My  father  now  was  busy  all  the  day ;  if  not 
in  his  office,  then  away  in  the  grim  city  of  the  giants,  as 
I  still  thought  of  it ;  while  to  my  mother  came  every  day 
more  social  and  domestic  duties ;  so  that  for  a  time  I  was 
left  much  to  my  own  resources. 

Rambling — "bummelling,"  as  the  Germans  term  it — 
was  my  bent.  This  my  mother  would  have  checked,  but 
my  father  said: 

''Don't  molly-coddle  him.     Let  him  learn  to  be  smart." 

"I  don't  think  the  smart  people  are  always  the  nicest," 
demurred  my  mother.  "I  don't  call  you  at  all  'smart,' 
Luke." 

My  father  appeared  surprised,  but  reflected. 

"I  should  call  myself  smart — in  a  sense,"  he  explained, 
after  consideration. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  dear,"  replied  my  mother ;  "and 
of  course  boys  are  different  from  girls." 

Sometimes  I  would  wander  Victoria  Park  way,  which 
was  then  surrounded  by  many  small  cottages  in  leafy  gar- 
dens;  or  even  reach  as  far  as  Clapton,  where  old  red  brick 
Georgian  houses  still  stood  behind  high  palings,  and  tall 
elms  gave  to  the  wide  road  on  sunny  afternoons  an  old- 
world  air  of  peace.  But  such  excursions  were  the  excep- 
tion, for  strange  though  it  may  read,  the  narrow,  squalid 
streets  had  greater  hold  on  me.  Not  the  few  main  thor- 
oughfares, filled  ever  with  a  dull,  deep  throbbing  as  of 
some  tireless  iron  machine ;  where  the  endless  human  files, 
streaming  ever  up  and  down,  crossing  and  recrossing, 
seemed  mere  rushing  chains  of  flesh  and  blood,  working 
upon  unseen  wheels ;  but  the  dim,  weary,  lifeless  streets — 
the  dark,  tortuous  roots,  as  I  fancied  them,  of  that  grim 
forest  of  entangled  brick.  Mystery  lurked  in  their  gloom. 
Fear  whispered  from  behind  their  silence.  Dumb  figures 
flitted  swiftly  to  and  fro,  never  pausing,  never  glancing 
right  nor  left.  Far-off  footsteps,  rising  swiftly  into  sound, 
as  swiftly  fading,  echoed  round  their  lonely  comers. 
Dreading,  yet  drawn  on,  I  would  creep  along  their  pave- 


52  Paul  Kelver 

ments  as  through  some  city  of  the  dead,  thinking'  of  the 
eyes  I  saw  not  watching  from  the  thousand  windows ; 
starting  at  each  muffled  sound  penetrating  the  long, 
dreary  walls,  behind  which  that  close-packed,  writhing 
life  lay  hid. 

One  day  there  came  a  cry  from  behind  a  curtained 
window.  I  stood  still  for  a  moment  and  then  ran;  but 
before  I  could  get  far  enough  away  I  heard  it  again,  a 
long,  piercing  cry,  growing  fiercer  before  it  ceased ;  so  that 
I  ran  faster  still,  not  heeding  where  I  went,  till  I  found 
myself  in  a  raw,  unfinished  street,  ending  in  black  waste 
land,  bordering  the  river.  I  stopped,  panting,  wondering 
how  I  should  find  my  way  again.  To  recover  myself  and 
think  I  sat  upon  the  doorstep  of  an  empty  house,  and  there 
came  dancing  down  the  road  with  a  curious,  half-running, 
half-hopping  step — something  like  a  water  wagtail's — a 
child,  a  boy  about  my  own  age,  who,  after  eyeing  me 
strangely  sat  down  beside  me. 

We  watched  each  other  for  a  few  minutes;  and  I  no- 
ticed that  his  mouth  kept  opening  and  shutting,  though  he 
said  nothing.  Suddenly,  edging  closer  to  me,  he  spoke  in 
a  thick  whisper.  It  sounded  as  though  his  mouth  were 
full  of  wool. 

"Wot  'appens  to  yer  when  yer  dead  ?" 

"If  you're  good  you  go  to  Heaven.  If  you're  bad  you 
go  to  Hell." 

"Long  way  off,  both  of  'em,  ain't  they  ?" 

"Yes.    Millions  of  miles." 

"They  can't  come  after  yer?  Can't  fetch  yer  back 
again  ?" 

"No,  never." 

The  doorstep  that  we  occupied  was  the  last.  A  yard 
beyond  began  the  black  Waste  of  mud.  From  the  other 
end  of  the  street,  now  growing  dark,  he  never  took  his 
staring  eyes  for  an  instant. 

"Ever  seen  a  stiff  'un — a  dead  'un?" 

"No." 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door 


53 


'1  'ave — stuck  a  pin  into  'im.  'E  never  felt  it.  Don't 
feel  anything  when  yer  dead,  do  yer  ?" 

All  the  while  he  kept  swaying  his  body  to  and  fro, 
twisting  his  arms  and  legs,  and  making  faces.  Comical 
figures  made  of  ginger-bread,  with  quaintly  curved  limbs 
and  grinning  features,  were  to  be  bought  then  in  bakers' 
shops :  he  made  me  hungry,  reminding  me  of  such. 

"Oi  course  not.  When  you  are  dead  you're  not  there, 
you  know.  Our  bodies  are  but  senseless  clay."  I  was 
glad  I  remembered  that  line.  I  tried  to  think  of  the  next 
one,  which  was  about  food  for  worms ;  but  it  evaded  me. 

*'I  Hke  you,"  he  said ;  and  making  a  fist,  he  gave  me  a 
punch  in  the  chest.  It  was  the  token  of  palship  among  the 
youth  of  that  neighbourhood,  and  gravely  I  returned  it, 
meaning  it,  for  friendship  with  children  is  an  affair  of  the 
instant,  or  not  at  all,  and  I  knew  him  for  my  first  chum. 

He  wormed  himself  up. 

"Yer  won't  tell  ?"  he  said. 

I  had  no  notion  what  I  was  not  to  tell,  but  our  compact 
demanded  that  I  should  agree. 

"Say  'I  swear.' " 

"I  swear." 

The  heroes  of  my  favourite  fiction  bound  themselves  by 
such  like  secret  oaths.  Here  evidently  was  a  comrade 
after  my  own  heart. 

"Good-bye,  cockey." 

But  he  turned  again,  and  taking  from  his  pocket  an  old 
knife,  thrust  it  into  my  hand.  Then  with  that  extraor- 
dinary hopping  movement  of  his  ran  off  across  the  mud. 

I  stood  watching  him,  wondering  where  he  could  be 
going.  He  stumbled  a  little  further,  where  the  mud  be- 
gan to  get  softer  and  deeper,  but  struggling  up  again, 
went  hopping  on  towards  the  river. 

I  shouted  to  him,  but  he  never  looked  back.  At  every 
few  yards  he  would  sink  down  almost  to  his  knees  in  the 
black  mud,  but  wrenching  himself  free  would  flounder 
forward.    Then,  still  some  distance  from  the  river,  he  fell 


54  Paul  Kelver 

upon  his  face,  and  did  not  rise  again.  I  saw  his  arms 
beating  feebler  and  feebler  as  he  sank  till  at  last  the  oily 
slime  closed  over  him,  and  I  could  detect  nothing  but  a 
faint  heaving  underneath  the  mud.  And  after  a  time  even 
that  ceased. 

It  was  late  before  I  reached  home,  and  fortunately  my 
father  and  mother  were  still  out.  I  did  not  tell  any  one 
what  I  had  seen,  having  sworn  not  to ;  and  as  time  went 
on  the  incident  haunted  me  less  and  less  until  it  became 
subservient  to  my  will.  But  of  my  fancy  for  those  silent, 
lifeless  streets  it  cured  me  for  the  time.  From  behind 
their  still  walls  I  would  hear  that  long  cry;  down  their 
narrow  vistas  see  that  writhing  figure,  like  some  animated 
ginger-bread,  hopping,  springing,  falling. 

Yet  in  the  more  crowded  streets  another  trouble  awaited 
me,  one  more  tangible. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  a  pack  of  sparrows  round  some 
crumbs  perchance  that  you  have  thrown  out  from  your 
window?  Suddenly  the  rest  of  the  flock  will  set  upon 
one.  There  is  a  tremendous  Lilliputian  hubbub,  a  tossing 
of  tiny  wings  and  heads,  a  babel  of  shrill  chirps.  It  is 
comical. 

"Spiteful  little  imps  they  are,"  you  say  to  yourself,  much 
amused. 

So  I  have  heard  good-tempered  men  and  women  call- 
ing out  to  one  another  with  a  laugh. 

"There  go  those  young  devils  chivvying  that  poor  little 
beggar  again ;  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  theirselves." 

But,  oh!  the  anguish  of  the  poor  little  beggar!  Can 
any  one  who  has  not  been  through  it  imagine  it !  Reduced 
to  its  actualities,  what  was  it?  Gibes  and  jeers  that,  after 
all,  break  no  bones.  A  few  pinches,  kicks  and  slaps;  at 
worst  a  few  hard  knocks.  But  the  dreading  of  it  before- 
hand !  Terror  lived  in  every  street,  hid,  waiting  for  me, 
round  each  corner.  The  half-dozen  wrangling  over  their 
marbles — ^had  they  seen  me?    The  boy  whistling  as  he 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     55 

stood  staring  into  the  print  shop,  would  I  get  past  him 
without  his  noticing  me;  or  would  he,  swinging  round 
upon  his  heel,  raise  the  shrill  whoop  that  brought  them 
from  every  doorway  to  hunt  me? 

The  shame,  when  caught  at  last  and  cornered :  the  grin- 
ning face  that  would  stop  to  watch ;  the  careless  jokes 
of  passers-by,  regarding  the  whole  thing  but  as  a  spar- 
rows' squabble  :  worst  of  all,  perhaps,  the  rare  pity !  The 
after  humiliation  when,  finally  released,  I  would  dart 
away,  followed  by  shouted  taunts  and  laughter ;  every  eye 
turned  to  watch  me,  shrinking  by ;  my  whole  small  carcass 
shaking  with  dry  sobs  of  bitterness  and  rage ! 

If  only  I  could  have  turned  and  faced  them !  So  far  as 
the  mere  bearing  of  pain  was  concerned,  I  knew  myself 
brave.  The  physical  suffering  resulting  from  any  number 
of  stand-up  fights  would  have  been  trivial  compared  with 
the  mental  agony  I  endured.  That  I,  the  comrade  of  a 
hundred  heroes — I,  who  nightly  rode  with  Richard  Coeur 
de  Lion,  who  against  Sir  Lancelot  himself  had  couched  a 
lance,  and  that  not  altogether  unsuccessful,  I  to  whom  all 
damsels  in  distress  were  wont  to  look  for  succour — ^that 
I  should  run  from  varlets  such  as  these ! 

My  friend,  my  bosom  friend,  good  Robin  Hood!  how 
would  he  have  behaved  under  similar  circumstances  ?  how 
Ivanhoe,  my  chosen  companion  in  all  quests  of  knightly 
enterprise?  how — to  come  to  modern  times — Jack  Hark- 
away,  mere  schoolboy  though  he  might  be?  Would  not 
one  and  all  have  welcomed  such  incident  with  a  joyous 
shout,  and  in  a  trice  have  scattered  to  the  winds  the 
worthless  herd? 

But,  alas !  upon  my  pale  lips  the  joyous  shout  sank  into 
an  unheard  whisper,  and  the  thing  that  became  scattered 
to  the  wind  was  myself,  the  first  opening  that  occurred. 

Sometimes,  the  blood  boiling  in  my  veins,  I  would  turn, 
thinking  to  go  back  and  at  all  risk  defying  my  tormentors, 
prove  to  myself  I  was  no  coward.     But  before  I  had  re- 


56  Paul  Kelver 

traced  my  steps  a  dozen  paces,  I  would  see  In  Imagination 
the  whole  scene  again  before  me :  the  laughing  crowd,  the 
halting  passers-by,  the  spiteful,  mocking  little  faces  every 
way  I  turned;  and  so  instead  would  creep  on  home,  and 
climbing  stealthily  up  into  my  own  room,  cry  my  heart  out 
in  the  dark  upon  my  bed. 

Until  one  blessed  day,  when  a  blessed  Fairy,  in  the  form 
of  a  small  kitten,  lifted  the  spell  that  bound  me,  and  set 
free  my  limbs. 

I  have  always  had  a  passionate  affection  for  the  dumb 
world,  if  it  be  dumb.  My  first  playmate,  I  remember,  was 
a  water  rat.  A  stream  ran  at  the  bottom  of  our  garden  ; 
and  sometimes,  escaping  the  vigilant  eye  of  Mrs.  Fursey, 
I  would  steal  out  with  my  supper  and  join  him  on  the 
banks.  There,  hidden  behind  the  osiers,  we  would  play 
at  banquets,  he,  it  is  true,  doing  most  of  the  banqueting, 
and  I  the  make-believe.  But  it  was  a  good  game ;  added  to 
which  it  was  the  only  game  I  could  ever  get  him  to  play, 
though  I  tried.    He  was  a  one-ideaed  rat. 

Later  I  came  into  the  possession  of  a  white  specimen  all 
my  own.  He  lived  chiefly  in  the  outside  breast  pocket  of 
my  jacket,  in  company  with  my  handkerchief,  so  that 
glancing  down  I  could  generally  see  his  little  pink  eyes 
gleaming  up  at  me,  except  on  very  cold  days,  when  it 
would  be  only  his  tail  that  I  could  see;  and  when  I  felt 
miserable,  somehow  he  would  know  it,  and,  swarming  up, 
push  his  little  cold  snout  against  my  ear.  He  died  just  so, 
clinging  round  my  neck;  and  from  many  of  my  fellow- 
men  and  women  have  I  parted  with  less  pain.  It  sounds 
callous  to  say  so ;  but,  after  all,  our  feelings  are  not  under 
our  own  control;  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand the  use  of  pretending  to  emotions  one  has  not.  All 
this,  however,  comes  later.  Let  me  return  now^  to  my 
fairy  kitten. 

I  heard  its  cry  of  pain  from  afar,  and  instinctively 
hastened  my  steps.  Three  or  four  times  I  heard  it  again, 
and  at  each  call  I  ran  faster,  till,  breathless,  I  arrived  upon 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     57 

the  scene,  the  opening  of  a  narrow  court,  leading  out  of  a 
by-street.  At  first  I  saw  nothing  but  the  backs  of  a  small 
mob  of  urchins.  Then  from  the  centre  of  them  came  an- 
other wailing  appeal  for  help,  and  without  waiting  for  any 
invitation,  I  pushed  my  way  into  the  group. 

What  I  saw  was  Hecuba  to  me — gave  me  the  motive 
and  the  cue  for  passion,  transformed  me  from  the  dull  and 
muddy-mettled  little  John-a-dreams  I  had  been  into  a 
small,  blind  Fury.  Pale  Thought,  that  mental  emetic,  ban- 
ished from  my  system,  I  became  the  healthy,  unreasoning 
animal^  and  acted  as  such. 

From  my  methods,  I  frankly  admit,  science  was  absent. 
In  simple,  primitive  fashion  that  would  have  charmed  a 
Darwinian  disciple  to  observe,  I  "went  for"  the  whole 
crowd.  To  employ  the  expressive  idiom  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, I  was  "all  over  it  and  inside."  Something  clung 
about  my  feet.  By  kicking  myself  free  and  then  standing 
on  it  I  gained  the  advantage  of  quite  an  extra  foot  in 
height;  I  don't  know  what  it  was  and  didn't  care.  I 
fought  with  my  arms  and  I  fought  with  my  legs;  where 
I  could  get  in  with  my  head  I  did.  I  fought  whatever 
came  to  hand  in  a  spirit  of  simple  thankfulness,  grateful 
for  what  I  could  reach  and  indifferent  to  what  was  beyond 
me. 

That  the  "show" — if  again  I  may  be  permitted  the  local 
idiom — was  not  entirely  mine  I  was  well  aware.  That  not 
alone  my  person  but  my  property  also  was  being  damaged 
in  the  rear  became  dimly  conveyed  to  me  through  the 
sensation  of  draught.  Already  the  world  to  the  left  of  me 
was  mere  picturesque  perspective,  while  the  growing  im- 
portance of  my  nose  was  threatening  the  absorption  of  all 
my  other  features.  These  things  did  not  trouble  me.  I 
merely  noted  them  as  phenomena  and  continued  to  punch 
steadily. 

Until  I  found  that  I  was  punching  something  soft  and 
yet  unyielding.  I  looked  up  to  see  what  this  foreign  mat- 
ter that  thus  mysteriously  had  entered  into  the  mixture 


58  Paul  Kelver 

might  be,  and  discovered  it  to  be  a  policeman.  Still  I  did 
not  care.  The  felon's  dock !  the  prison  cell !  a  fig  for  such 
mere  bogies.  An  impudent  word,  an  insulting  look,  and  I 
would  have  gone  for  the  Law  itself.  Pale  Thought — it 
must  have  been  a  livid  green  by  this  time — still  trembled  at 
respectful  distance  from  me. 

Fortunately  for  all  of  us,  he  was  not  impertinent,  and 
though  he  spoke  the  language  of  his  order,  his  tone  dis- 
armed offence. 

"Now,  then.    Now,  then.    What  is  all  this  about  ?" 

There  was  no  need  for  me  to  answer.  A  dozen  voluble 
tongues  were  ready  to  explain  to  him;  and  to  explain 
wholly  in  my  favour.  This  time  the  crowd  was  with  me. 
Let  a  man  school  himself  to  bear  dispraise,  for  thereby 
alone  shall  he  call  his  soul  his  own.  But  let  no  man  lie, 
saying  he  is  indifferent  to  popular  opinion.  That  was  my 
first  taste  of  public  applause.  The  public  was  not  select, 
and  the  applause  might,  by  the  sticklers  for  English  pure 
and  undefiled,  have  been  deemed  ill-worded,  but  to  me  it 
was  the  sweetest  music  I  had  ever  heard,  or  have  heard 
since.  I  was  called  a  "plucky  little  devil/'  a  "fair  'ot  'un," 
not  only  a  "good  'un,"  but  a  "good  'un"  preceded  by  the 
adjective  that  in  the  East  bestows  upon  its  principal  every 
admirable  quality  that  can  possibly  apply.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances it  likewise  fitted  me  literally ;  but  I  knew  it  was 
intended  rather  in  its  complimentary  sense. 

Kind;  if  dirty,  hands  wiped  my  face.  A  neighbouring 
butcher  presented  me  with  a  choice  morsel  of  steak,  not  to 
eat  but  to  wear ;  and  I  found  it,  if  I  may  so  express  myself 
without  infringing  copyright,  "grateful  and  comforting." 
My  enemies  had  long  since  scooted,  some  of  them,  I  had 
rejoiced  to  notice,  with  lame  and  halting  steps.  The 
mutilated  kitten  had  been  restored  to  its  owner,  a  lady  of 
ample  bosom,  who,  carried  beyond  judgment  by  emotion, 
publicly  offered  to  adopt  me  on  the  spot.  The  Law  sug- 
gested, not  for  the  first  time,  that  everybody  should  now 
move  on ;  and  slowly,  followed  by  feminine  commendation 


How  Good  Luck  Knocked  at  the  Door     59 

mingled  with  masculine  advice  as  to  improved  methods 
for  the  future,  I  was  allowed  to  drift  away. 

My  bones  ached,  my  flesh  stung  me,  yet  I  walked  as 
upon  air.  Gradually  I  became  conscious  that  I  was  not 
alone.  A  light,  pattering  step  was  trying  to  keep  pace 
with  me.  Graciously  I  slacked  my  speed,  and  the  patter- 
ing step  settled  down  beside  me.  Every  now  and  again 
she  would  run  ahead  and  then  turn  round  to  look  up  into 
my  face,  much  as  your  small  dog  does  when  he  happens 
not  to  be  misbehaving  himself  and  desires  you  to  note  the 
fact.  Evidently  she  approved  of  me.  I  was  not  at  my 
best,  as  far  as  appearance  was  concerned,  but  women  are 
kittle  cattle,  and  I  think  she  preferred  me  so.  Thus  we 
walked  for  quite  a  long  distance  without  speaking,  I 
drinking  in  the  tribute  of  her  worship  and  enjoying  it. 
Then  gaining  confidence,  she  shyly  put  her  hand  into  mine, 
and  finding  I  did  not  repel  her,  promptly  assumed  posses- 
sion of  me,  according  to  woman's  way. 

For  her  age  and  station  she  must  have  been  a  person  of 
means,  for  having  tried  in  vain  various  methods  to  make 
me  more  acceptable  to  followers  and  such  as  having 
passed  would  turn  their  heads,  she  said : 

*T  know,  gelatines ;"  and  disappearing  into  a  sweetstuff 
shop,  returned  with  quite  a  quantity.  With  these,  first 
sucked  till  glutinous,  we  joined  my  many  tatters.  I  still 
attracted  attention,  but  felt  warmer. 

She  informed  me  that  her  name  was  Cissy,  and  that  her 
father's  shop  was  in  Three  Colt  Street.  I  informed  her 
that  my  name  was  Paul,  and  that  my  father  was  a  lawyer. 
I  also  pointed  out  to  her  that  a  lawyer  is  much  superior  in 
social  position  to  a  shopkeeper,  which  she  acknowledged 
cheerfully.  We  parted  at  the  corner  of  the  Stainsby  Road, 
and  I  let  her  kiss  me  once.  It  was  understood  that  in  the 
Stainsby  Road  we  might  meet  again. 

I  left  Eliza  gaping  after  me,  the  front  door  in  her  hand, 
and  ran  straight  up  into  my  own  room.  Robinson  Crusoe, 
King  Arthur,  The  Last  of  the  Barons,  Rob  Roy !    I  looked 


6o  Paul  Kelver 

them  all  in  the  face  and  was  not  ashamed.  I  aiso  was  a 
gentleman. 

My  mother  was  much  troubled  when  she  saw  me,  but 
my  father,  hearing  the  story,  approved. 

''But  he  looks  so  awful,"  said  my  mother.  "In  this 
world,"  said  my  father,  ''one  must  occasionally  be  aggres- 
sive— if  necessary,  brutal." 

My  father  would  at  times  be  quite  savage  in  his  senti- 
ments. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

PAUL,  FALLING  IN  WITH  A  GOODLY  COMPANY  OF  PILGRIMS, 
LEARNS  OF  THEM  THE  ROAD  THAT  HE  MUST  TRAVEL. 
AND  MEETS  THE  PRINCESS  OF  THE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

The  East  India  Dock  Road  is  nowadays  a  busy, 
crowded  thoroughfare.  The  jingle  of  the  tram-bell  and 
the  rattle  of  the  omnibus  and  cart  mingle  continuously 
with  the  rain  of  many  feet,  beating  ceaselessly  upon  its 
pavements.  But  at  the  time  of  which  I  write  it  was  an 
empty,  voiceless  way,  bounded  on  the  one  side  by  the 
long,  echoing  wall  of  the  docks  and  on  the  other  by  occa- 
sional small  houses  isolated  amid  market  gardens,  drying 
grounds  and  rubbish  heaps.  Only  one  thing  remains — or 
did  remain  last  time  I  passed  along  it,  connecting  it  with 
its  former  self — and  that  is  the  one-storeyed  brick  cottage 
at  the  commencement  of  the  bridge,  and  which  was  for- 
merly the  toll-house.  I  remember  this  toll-house  so  well 
because  it  was  there  that  my  childhood  fell  from  me,  and 
sad  and  frightened  I  saw  the  world  beyond. 

I  cannot  explain  it  better.  I  had  been  that  afternoon  to 
Plaistow  on  a  visit  to  the  family  dentist.  It  was  an  out-of- 
the-way  place  in  which  to  keep  him,  but  there  existed 
advantages  of  a  counterbalancing  nature. 

"Have  the  half-crown  in  your  hand,"  my  mother  would 
direct  me,  while  making  herself  sure  that  the  purse  con- 
taining it  was  safe  at  the  bottom  of  my  knickerbocker 
pocket ;  ''but  of  course  if  he  won't  take  it,  why,  you  must 
bring  it  home  again." 

I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  he  was  some  distant  connec- 
tion of  ours ;  at  all  events,  I  know  he  was  a  kind  friend.  I, 


62  Paul  Kelver 

seated  In  the  velvet  chair  of  state,  he  would  unroll  his  case 
of  instruments  before  me,  and  ask  me  to  choose,  recom- 
mending with  affectionate  eulogisms  the  most  murderous 
looking. 

But  on  my  opening  my  mouth  to  discuss  the  fearful 
topic,  lo!  a  pair  would  shoot  from  under  his  coat-sleeve, 
and  almost  before  I  knew  what  had  happened,  the  trouble 
would  be  over.  After  that  we  would  have  tea  together. 
He  was  an  old  bachelor,  and  his  house  stood  in  a  great 
garden — for  Plaistow  in  those  days  was  a  picturesque  vil- 
lage— and  out  of  the  plentiful  fruit  thereof  his  house- 
keeper made  the  most  wonderful  of  jams  and  jellies.  Oh, 
they  were  good,  those  teas !  Generally  our  conversation 
was  of  my  mother  who,  it  appeared,  was  once  a  little  girl : 
not  at  all  the  sort  of  little  girl  I  should  have  imagined  her ; 
on  the  contrary,  a  prankish,  wilful  little  girl,  though  good 
company,  I  should  say,  if  all  the  tales  he  told  of  her  were 
true.  And  I  am  inclined  to  think  they  were,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  my  mother,  when  I  repeated  them  to  her,  would 
laugh,  saying  she  was  sure  she  had  no  recollection  of  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  adding  severely  that  it  was  a  pity  he  and 
I  could  not  find  something  better  to  gossip  about.  Yet 
her  next  question  would  be : 

"And  what  else  did  he  say,  if  you  please?"  explaining 
impatiently  when  my  answer  was  not  of  the  kind  ex- 
pected :  "No,  no,  I  mean  about  me." 

The  tea  things  cleared  away,  he  would  bring  out  his 
great  microscope.  To  me  it  was  a  peep-hole  into  a  fairy 
world  where  dwelt  strange  dragons,  mighty  monsters,  so 
that  I  came  to  regard  him  as  a  sort  of  harmless  magician. 
It  was  his  pet  study,  and  looking  back,  I  cannot  help  asso- 
ciating his  enthusiasm  for  all  things  microscopical  with 
the  fact  that  he  was  an  exceptionally  little  man  himself, 
but  one  of  the  biggest  hearted  that  ever  breathed. 

On  leaving  I  would  formally  hand  him  my  half-crown, 
"with  mamma's  compliments,"  and  he  would  formally  ac- 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the;  Golden  Locks     63 

cept  it.  But  on  putting  my  hand  into  my  jacket  pocket 
when  outside  the  gate  I  would  invariably  find  it  there. 
The  first  time  I  took  it  back  to  him,  but  unblushingly  he 
repudiated  all  knowledge. 

"Must  be  another  half-crown,"  he  suggested;  "such 
things  do  happen.  One  puts  change  into  a  pocket  and 
overlooks  it.     Slippery  things,  half-crowns." 

Returning  home  on  this  particular  day  of  days,  I  paused 
upon  the  bridge,  and  watched  for  awhile  ths  lazy  barges 
manoeuvring  their  way  between  the  piers.  It  was  one  of 
those  hushed  summer  evenings  when  the  air  even  of  grim 
cities  is  full  of  whispering  voices ;  and  as,  turning  away 
from  the  river,  I  passed  through  the  white  toll-gate,  I  had 
a  sense  of  leaving  myself  behind  me  on  the  bridge.  So 
vivid  was  the  impression,  that  I  looked  back,  half  expect- 
ing to  see  myself  still  leaning  over  the  iron  parapet,  look- 
ing down  into  the  sunlit  water. 

It  sounds  foolish,  but  I  leave  it  standing,  wondering  if 
to  others  a  like  experience  has  ever  come.  The  little  chap 
never  came  back  to  me.  He  passed  away  from  me  as  a 
man's  body  may  possibly  pass  away  from  him,  leaving 
him  only  remembrance  and  regret.  For  a  time  I  tried  to 
play  his  games,  to  dream  his  dreams,  but  the  substance 
was  wanting.    I  was  only  a  thin  ghost,  making  believe. 

It  troubled  me  for  quite  a  spell  of  time,  even  to  the 
point  of  tears,  this  feeling  that  my  childhood  lay  behind 
me,  this  sudden  realisation  that  I  was  travelling  swiftly 
the  strange  road  called  growing  up.  I  did  not  want  to 
grow  up ;  could  nothing  be  done  to  stop  it  ?  Rather  would 
I  be  always  as  I  had  been,  playing,  dreaming.  The  dark 
way  frightened  me.     Must  I  go  forward? 

Then  gradually,  but  very  slowly,  with  the  long  months 
and  years,  came  to  me  the  consciousness  of  a  new  being, 
new  pulsations,  sensories,  throbbings,  rooted  in  but  differ- 
ing widely  from  the  old ;  and  little  Paul,  the  Paul  of  whom 
I  have  hitherto  spoken,  faded  from  my  life. 


64  Paul  Kelver 

So  likewise  must  I  let  him  fade  with  sorrow  from  this 
book.  But  before  I  part  with  him  entirely,  let  me  recall 
what  else  I  can  remember  of  him.  Thus  we  shall  be  quit 
of  him,  and  he  will  interfere  with  us  no  more. 

Chief  among  the  pictures  that  I  see  is  that  of  my  aunt 
Fan,  crouching  over  the  kitchen  fire ;  her  skirt  and  crino- 
line rolled  up  round  her  waist,  leaving  as  sacrifice  to  cus- 
tom only  her  petticoat.  Up  and  down  her  body  sways  in 
rhythmic  motion,  her  hands  stroking  affectionately  her 
own  knees;  the  while  I,  with  paper  knife  for  sword,  or 
horse  of  broomstick,  stand  opposite  her,  flourishing  and 
declaiming.  Sometimes  I  am  a  knight  and  she  a  wicked 
ogre.  She  is  slain,  growling  and  swearing,  and  at  once 
becomes  the  beautiful  princess  that  I  secure  and  bear 
away  with  me  upon  the  prancing  broomstick.  So  long  as 
the  princess  is  merely  holding  sweet  converse  with  me 
from  her  high-barred  window,  the  scene  is  realistic,  at 
least,  to  sufficiency ;  but  the  bearing  away  has  to  be  make- 
believe;  for  my  aunt  cannot  be  persuaded  to  leave  her 
chair  before  the  fire,  and  the  everlasting  rubbing  of  her 
knees. 

At  other  times,  with  the  assistance  of  the  meat  chopper, 
I  am  an  Indian  brave,  and  then  she  is  Laughing  Water 
or  Singing  Sunshine,  and  we  go  out  scalping  together ;  or 
in  less  bloodthirsty  moods  I  am  the  Fairy  Prince  and  she 
the  Sleeping  Beauty.  But  in  such  parts  she  is  not  at  her 
best.  Better,  when  seated  in  the  centre  of  the  up-turned 
table,  I  am  Captain  Cook,  and  she  the  Cannibal  Chief. 

"I  shall  skin  him  and  hang  him  in  the  larder  till  Sunday 
week,"  says  my  aunt,  smacking  her  lips,  "then  he'll  be  just 
in  right  condition ;  not  too  tough  and  not  too  high."  She 
was  always  strong  in  detail,  was  my  aunt  Fan. 

I  do  not  wish  to  deprive  my  aunt  of  any  credit  due  to 
her,  but  the  more  I  exercise  my  memory  for  evidence,  the 
more  I  am  convinced  that  her  compliance  on  these  occa- 
sions was  not  conceived  entirely  in  the  spirit  of  self-sac- 
rifice.   Often  would  she  suggest  the  game  and  even  the 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     65 

theme;  in  such  case,  casting  herself  invariably  for  what, 
in  old  theatrical  parlance,  would  have  been  termed  the 
heavy  lead,  the  dragons  and  the  wicked  uncles,  the  fussy 
necromancers  and  the  uninvited  fairies.  As  authoress  of 
a  new  cookery  book  for  use  in  giant-land,  my  aunt,  I  am 
sure,  would  have  been  successful.  Most  recipes  that  one 
reads  are  so  monotonously  meagre :  "Boil  him,"  "Put  her 
on  the  spit  and  roast  her  for  supper,"  "Cook  'em  in  a  pie — 
with  plenty  of  gravy;"  but  my  aunt  into  the  domestic 
economy  of  Ogredom  introduced  variety  and  daintiness. 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  my  aunt  would  direct,  "we'll  have 
him  stuffed  with  chestnuts  and  served  on  toast.  And 
don't  forget  the  giblets.  They  make  such  excellent 
sauce." 

With  regard  to  the  diet  of  imprisoned  maidens  she 
would  advise : 

"Not  too  much  fish — it  spoils  the  flesh  for  roasting." 

The  things  that  she  would  turn  people  into — king's  sons, 
rightful  princesses,  such  sort  of  people — people  who  after 
a  time,  one  would  think,  must  have  quite  forgotten  what 
they  started  as.  To  let  her  have  her  way  was  a  lesson  to 
me  in  natural  history  both  present  and  pre-historic.  The 
most  beautiful  damsel  that  ever  lived  she  would  without 
a  moment's  hesitation  turn  into  a  Glyptodon  or  a  Hippo- 
crepian.  Afterwards,  when  I  could  guess  at  the  spelling, 
I  would  look  these  creatures  up  in  the  illustrated  diction- 
ary, and  feel  that  under  no  circumstances  could  I  have 
loved  the  lady  ever  again.  Warriors  and  kings  she  would 
delight  in  transforming  into  plaice  or  prawns,  and  haughty 
queens  into  Brussels  sprouts. 

With  gusto  would  she  plan  a  complicated  slaughter, 
paying  heed  to  every  detail :  the  sharpening  of  the  knives, 
the  having  ready  of  mops  and  pails  of  water  for  purposes 
of  after  cleaning  up.  As  a  writer  she  would  have  followed 
the  realistic  school. 

Her  death,  with  which  we  invariably  wound  up  the 
afternoon,  was  another  conscientious  effort.    Indeed,  her 


66  Paul  Kelver 

groans  and  writhlngs  would  sometimes  frighten  me.  I 
always  welcomed  the  last  gurgle.  That  finished,  but  not 
a  moment  before,  my  aunt  would  let  down  her  skirt — in 
this  way  suggesting  the  fall  of  the  curtain  upon  our  play — 
and  set  to  work  to  get  the  tea. 

Another  frequently  recurring  picture  that  I  see  is  of 
myself  in  glazed-peaked  cap  explaining  many  things  the 
while  we  walk  through  dingy  streets  to  yet  a  smaller  fig- 
ure curly  haired  and  open  eyed.  Still  every  now  and  then 
she  runs  ahead  to  turn  and  look  admiringly  into  my  face 
as  on  the  day  she  first  became  captive  to  the  praise  and 
fame  of  me. 

I  was  glad  of  her  company  for  more  reasons  than  she 
knew  of.  For  one,  she  protected  me  against  my  baser  self. 
With  her  beside  me  I  should  not  have  dared  to  flee  from 
sudden  foes.  Indeed,  together  we  courted  adventure ;  for 
once  you  get  used  to  it  this  standing  hazard  of  attack  adds 
a  charm  to  outdoor  exercise  that  older  folk  in  districts 
better  policed  enjoy  not.  So  possibly  my  dog  feels  when 
together  we  take  the  air.  To  me  it  is  a  simple  walk, 
maybe  a  little  tiresome,  suggested  rather  by  contemplation 
of  my  waistband  than  by  desire  for  walking  for  mere 
walking's  sake;  to  him  an  expedition  full  of  danger  and 
surprises :  "The  gentleman  asleep  with  one  eye  open  on 
The  Chequer's  doorstep !  will  he  greet  me  with  a  friendly 
sniff  or  try  to  bite  my  head  off?  This  cross-eyed,  lop- 
eared  loafer,  lurching  against  the  lamp-post !  shall  we  pass 
with  a  careless  wag  and  a  'how-do/  or  become  locked  in  a 
life  and  death  struggle?  Impossible  to  say.  This  com- 
ing corner,  now,  'Ware !  Is  anybody  waiting  round  there 
to  kill  me,  or  not?" 

But  the  trusting  face  beside  me  nerved  me.  As  reward 
in  lonely  places  I  would  let  her  hold  my  hand. 

A  second  advantage  I  derived  from  her  company  was 
that  of  being  less  trampled  on,  less  walked  over,  less  swept 
aside  into  doorway  or  gutter  than  when  alone.  A  pretty, 
winsome  face  had  this  little  maid,  if  Memory  plays  me  not 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     67 

kindly  false ;  but  also  she  had  a  vocabulary ;  and  when  the 
blind  idiot,  male  or  female,  instead  of  passing  us  by  walk- 
ing round  us,  would,  after  the  custom  of  the  blind  idiot, 
seek  to  gain  the  other  side  of  us  by  walking  through  us, 
she  would  use  it. 

"Now,  then,  where  yer  coming  to,  old  glass-eye?  We 
ain't  sperrits.    Can't  yer  see  us  ?" 

And  if  they  attempted  reply,  her  child's  treble,  so 
strangely  at  variance  with  her  dainty  appearance,  would 
only  rise  more  shrill. 

"Garn !  They'd  run  out  of  'eads  when  they  was  making 
you.  That's  only  a  turnip  wot  you've  got  stuck  on  top  of 
yer !"     I  offer  but  specimens. 

Nor  was  it  of  the  slightest  use  attempting  personal  chas- 
tisement, as  sometimes  an  irate  lady  or  gentleman  would 
be  foolish  enough  to  do.  As  well  might  an  hippopotamus 
attempt  to  reprove  a  terrier.  The  only  result  was  to  pro- 
vide comedy  for  the  entire  street. 

On  these  occasions  our  positions  were  reversed,  I  being 
the  admiring  spectator  of  her  prowess.  Yet  to  me  she  was 
ever  meek,  almost  irritatingly  submissive.  She  found  out 
where  I  lived  and  would  often  come  and  wait  for  me  for 
hours,  her  little  face  pressed  tight  against  the  iron  railings, 
until  either  I  came  out  or  shook  my  head  at  her  from  my 
bedroom  window,  when  she  would  run  off,  the  dying  away 
into  silence  of  her  pattering  feet  leaving  me  a  little  sad. 

I  think  I  cared  for  her  in  a  way,  yet  she  never  entered 
into  my  day-dreams,  which  means  that  she  existed  for  me 
only  in  the  outer  world  of  shadows  that  lay  round  about 
me  and  was  not  of  my  real  life. 

Also,  I  think  she  was  unwise,  introducing  me  to  the 
shop,  for  children  and  dogs — one  seems  unconsciously  to 
bracket  them  in  one's  thoughts — are  snobbish  little 
wretches.  If  only  her  father  had  been  a  dealer  in  fire- 
wood I  could  have  soothed  myself  by  imagining  mistakes. 
It  was  a  common  occurrence,  as  I  well  knew,  for  children 
of  quite  the  best  families  to  be  brought  up  by  wood  chop- 


68  Paul  Kelver 

pers.  Fairies,  the  best  intentioned  in  the  world,  but  born 
muddlers,  were  generally  responsible  for  these  mishaps, 
which,  however,  always  became  righted  in  time  for  the 
wedding.  Or  even  had  he  been  a  pork  butcher,  and  there 
were  many  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  could  have  thought  of 
him  as  a  swineherd,  and  so  found  precedent  for  hope. 

But  a  fishmonger — from  six  in  the  evening  a  fried  fish- 
monger! I  searched  history  in  vain.  Fried  fishmongers 
were  without  the  pale. 

So  gradually  our  meetings  became  less  frequent,  though 
I  knew  that  every  afternoon  she  waited  in  the  quiet  Stains- 
by  Road,  where  dwelt  in  semi-detached,  six-roomed  villas 
the  aristocracy  of  Poplar,  and  that  after  awhile,  for  arriv- 
ing late  at  times  I  have  been  witness  to  the  sad  fact,  tears 
would  trace  pathetic  patterns  upon  her  dust-besprinkled 
cheeks;  and  with  the  advent  of  the  world-illuminating 
Barbara,  to  which  event  I  am  drawing  near,  they  ceased 
altogether. 

So  began  and  ended  my  first  romance.  One  of  these 
days — some  quiet  summer's  afternoon,  when  even  the  air 
of  Pigott  Street  vibrates  with  tenderness  beneath  the 
whispered  sighs  of  Memory,  I  shall  walk  into  the  little 
grocer's  shop  and  boldly  ask  to  see  her.  So  far  have  I 
already  gone  as  to  trace  her,  and  often  have  I  tried  to  catch 
sight  of  her  through  the  glass  door,  but  hitherto  in  vain. 
I  know  she  is  the  more  or  less  troubled  mother  of  a  nu- 
merous progeny.  I  am  told  she  has  grown  stout,  and 
probable  enough  it  is  that  her  tongue  has  gained  rather 
than  lost  in  sharpness.  Yet  under  all  the  unrealities  the 
clumsy-handed  world  has  built  about  her,  I  shall  see,  I 
know,  the  lithesome  little  maid  with  fond,  admiring  eyes. 
What  help  they  were  to  me  I  never  knew  till  I  had  lost 
them.  How  hard  to  gain  such  eyes  I  have  learned  since. 
Were  we  to  write  the  truth  in  our  confession  books, 
should  we  not  admit  the  quality  we  most  admire  in  others 
is  admiration  of  ourselves  ?  And  is  it  not  a  wise  selection  ? 
If  you  would  have  me  admirable,  my  friend,  admire  me. 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     69 

and  speak  your  commendation  without  stint  that  in  the 
sunshine  of  your  praises  I  may  wax.  For  indifference 
maketh  an  indifferent  man,  and  contempt  a  contemptible 
man.  Come,  is  it  not  true  ?  Does  not  all  that  is  worthy  in 
us  grow  best  by  honour  ? 

Chief  among  the  remaining  figures  on  my  childhood's 
stage  were  the  many  servants  of  our  house,  the  "generals," 
as  they  were  termed.  So  rapid,  as  a  rule,  was  their 
transit  through  our  kitchen  that  only  one  or  two,  conspicu- 
ous by  reason  of  their  lingering,  remain  upon  my  view.  It 
was  a  neighbourhood  in  which  domestic  servants  were  not 
much  required.  Those  intending  to  take  up  the  calling 
seriously  went  westward.  The  local  ranks  were  recruited 
mainly  from  the  discontented  or  the  disappointed,  from 
those  who,  unappreciated  at  home,  hoped  from  the 
stranger  more  discernment;  or  from  the  love-lorn,  the 
jilted  and  the  jealous,  who  took  the  cap  and  apron  as  in 
an  earlier  age  their  like  would  have  taken  the  veil.  Maybe, 
to  the  comparative  seclusion  of  our  basement,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  alternative  frivolity  of  shop  or  factory, 
they  felt  in  such  mood  more  attuned.  With  the  advent  of 
the  new  or  the  recovery  of  the  old  young  man  they  would 
plunge  again  into  the  vain  world,  leaving  my  poor  mother 
to  search  afresh  amid  the  legions  of  the  cursed. 

With  these  I  made  such  comradeship  as  I  could,  for  I 
had  no  child  friends.  Kind  creatures  were  most  of  them, 
at  least  so  I  found  them.  They  were  poor  at  "making  be- 
lieve," but  would  always  squeeze  ten  minutes  from  their 
work  to  romp  with  me,  and  that,  perhaps,  was  healthier 
for  me.  What,  perhaps,  was  not  so  good  for  me  was  that, 
staggered  at  the  amount  of  "book-learning"  implied  by  my 
conversation  (for  the  journalistic  instinct,  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  was  early  displayed  in  me),  they  would  listen 
open-mouthed  to  all  my  information,  regarding  me  as  a 
precocious  oracle.  Sometimes  they  would  obtain  per- 
mission to  take  me  home  with  them  to  tea,  generously 
eager  that  their  friends  should  also  profit  by  me.     Then, 


JO  Paul  Kelver 

encouraged  by  admiring,  grinning  faces,  I  would  ''hold 
forth,"  keenly  enjoying  the  sound  of  my  own  proud 
piping. 

"As  good  as  a  book,  ain't  he?"  was  the  tribute  most 
often  paid  to  me. 

"As  good  as  a  play,"  one  enthusiastic  listener,  an  old 
greengrocer,  went  so  far  as  to  say. 

Already  I  regarded  myself  as  among  the  Immortals. 

One  girl,  a  dear,  wholesome  creature  named  Janet, 
stayed  with  us  for  months  and  might  have  stayed  years, 
but  for  her  addiction  to  strong  language.  The  only  and 
well-beloved  child  of  the  captain  of  the  barge  "Nancy 
Jane,"  trading  between  Purfleet  and  Ponder's  End,  her 
conversation  was  at  once  my  terror  and  delight. 

"Janet,"  my  mother  would  exclaim  in  agony,  her  hands 
going  up  instinctively  to  guard  her  ears,  "how  can  you 
use  such  words?" 

"What  words,  mum?" 

"The  things  you  have  just  called  the  gas  man." 

"Him !  Well,  did  you  see  what  he  did,  mum  ?  Walked 
straight  into  my  clean  kitchen,  without  even  wiping  his 
boots,  the — "  And  before  my  mother  could  stop  her,  Janet 
had  relieved  her  feelings  by  calling  him  it — or  rather  them 
— again,  without  any  idea  that  she  had  done  aught  else 
than  express  in  fitting  phraseology  a  natural  human  emo- 
tion. 

We  were  good  friends,  Janet  and  I,  and  therefore  it 
was  that  I  personally  undertook  her  reformation.  It  was 
not  an  occasion  for  mincing  one's  words.  The  stake  at 
issue  was,  I  felt,  too  important.  I  told  her  bluntly  that  if 
she  persisted  in  using  such  language  she  would  inevitably 
go  to  hell. 

"Then  where's  my  father  going?"  demanded  Janet. 

"Does  he  use  language  ?" 

I  gathered  from  Janet  that  no  one  who  had  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  hearing  her  father  could  ever  again  take  inter- 
est in  the  feeble  efforts  of  herself. 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     71 

"I  am  afraid,  Janet,"  I  explained,  "that  if  he  doesn't 
give  it  up " 

"But  it's  the  only  way  he  can  talk,"  interrupted  Janet. 
"He  don't  mean  anything  by  it." 

I  sighed,  yet  set  my  face  against  weakness.  "You  see, 
Janet,  people  who  swear  do  go  there." 

But  Janet  would  not  believe. 

"God  send  my  dear,  kind  father  to  hell  just  because  he 
can't  talk  like  the  gentlefolks!  Don't  you  believe  it  of 
Him,  Master  Paul.    He's  got  more  sense." 

I  hope  I  pain  no  one  by  quoting  Janet's  common  sense. 
For  that  I  should  be  sorry.  I  remember  her  words  be- 
cause so  often,  when  sinking  in  sloughs  of  childish 
despond,  they  afforded  me  firm  foothold.  More  often  than 
I  can  tell,  when  compelled  to  listen  to  the  sententious  voice 
of  immeasurable  Folly  glibly  explaining  the  eternal  mys- 
teries, has  it  comforted  me  to  whisper  to  myself :  "I  don't 
believe  it  of  Him.    He's  got  more  sense." 

And  about  that  period  I  had  need  of  all  the  comfort  I 
could  get.  As  we  descend  the  road  of  life,  the  journey, 
demanding  so  much  of  our  attention,  becomes  of  more 
importance  than  the  journey's  end ;  but  to  the  child,  stand- 
ing at  the  valley's  gate,  the  terminating  hills  are  clearly 
visible.  What  lies  beyond  them  is  his  constant  wonder. 
I  never  questioned  my  parents  directly  on  the  subject, 
shrinking  as  so  strangely  we  all  do,  both  young  and  old, 
from  discussion  of  the  very  matters  of  most  moment  to  us ; 
and  they,  on  their  part,  not  guessing  my  need,  contented 
themselves  with  the  vague  generalities  with  which  we  seek 
to  hide  even  from  ourselves  the  poverty  of  our  beliefs. 
But  there  were  foolish  voices  about  me  less  reticent ;  while 
the  literature,  illustrated  and  otherwise,  provided  in  those 
days  for  serious-minded  youth,  answered  all  questionings 
with  blunt  brutality.  If  you  did  wrong  you  burnt  in  a 
fiery  furnace  for  ever  and  ever.  Were  your  imagination 
weak  you  could  turn  to  the  accompanying  illustration,  and 
see  at  a  glance  how  you  yourself  would  writhe  and  shrink 


72  Paul  Kelver 

and  scream,  while  cheerful  devils,  well  organised,  were 
busy  stoking.  I  had  been  burnt  once,  rather  badly,  in  con- 
sequence of  live  coals,  in  course  of  transit  on  a  shovel,  be- 
ing let  fall  upon  me.  I  imagined  these  burning  coals,  not 
confined  to  a  mere  part  of  my  body,  but  pressing  upon  me 
everywhere,  not  snatched  swiftly  off  by  loving  hands,  the 
pain  assuaged  by  applications  of  soft  soap  and  the  blue 
bag,  but  left  there,  eating  into  my  flesh  and  veins.  And 
this  continued  for  eternity.  You  suffered  for  an  hour,  a 
day,  a  thousand  years,  and  were  no  nearer  to  the  end ;  ten 
thousand,  a  million  years,  and  yet,  as  at  the  very  first,  it 
was  for  ever,  and  for  ever  still  it  would  always  be  for  ever ! 
I  suffered  also  from  insomnia  about  this  period. 

"Then  be  good,"  replied  the  foolish  voices  round  me; 
"never  do  wrong,  and  so  avoid  this  endless  agony." 

But  it  was  so  easy  to  do  wrong.  There  were  so  many 
wrong  things  to  do,  and  the  doing  of  them  was  so  natural. 

"Then  repent,"  said  the  voices,  always  ready. 

But  how  did  one  repent  ?  What  was  repentance  ?  Did 
I  "hate  my  sin,"  as  I  was  instructed  I  must,  or  merely  hate 
the  idea  of  going  to  hell  for  it  ?  Because  the  latter,  even 
my  child's  sense  told  me,  was  no  true  repentance.  Yet 
how  could  one  know  the  difference? 

Above  all  else  there  haunted  me  the  fear  of  the  "Unfor- 
givable Sin."  What  this  was  I  was  never  able  to  discover. 
I  dreaded  to  enquire  too  closely,  lest  I  should  find  I  had 
committed  it.     Day  and  night  the  terror  of  it  clung  to  me. 

"Believe,"  said  the  voices ;  "so  only  shall  you  be  saved." 

How  believe?  How  know  you  did  believe?  Hours 
would  I  kneel  in  the  dark,  repeating  in  a  whispered  scream  : 
"I  believe,  I  believe.  Oh,  I  do  believe!"  and  then  rise 
with  white  knuckles,  wondering  if  I  really  did  believe. 

Another  question  rose  to  trouble  me.  In  the  course 
of  my  meanderings  I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
old  sailor,  one  of  the  most  disreputable  specimens  possible 
to  find ;  and  had  learned  to  love  him.  Our  first  meeting 
had  been  outside  a  confectioner's  window,  in  the  Commer- 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     73 

cial  Road,  where  he  had  discovered  me  standing,  my  nose 
against  the  glass,  a  mere  palpitating  Appetite  on  legs.  He 
had  seized  me  by  the  collar,  and  hauled  me  into  the  shop. 
There,  dropping  me  upon  a  stool,  he  bade  me  eat.  Pride 
of  race  prompted  me  politely  to  decline,  but  his  language 
became  so  awful  that  in  fear  and  trembling  I  obeyed.  So 
soon  as  I  was  finished — it  cost  him  two  and  fourpence,  I 
remember — we  walked  down  to  the  docks  together,  and 
he  told  me  stories  of  the  sea  and  land  that  made  my  blood 
run  cold.  Altogether,  in  the  course  of  three  weeks  or  a 
month,  we  met  about  half  a  dozen  times,  when  much  the 
same  programme  was  gone  through.  I  think  I  was  a 
fairly  frank  child,  but  I  said  nothing  about  him  at  home, 
feeling  instinctively  that  if  I  did  there  would  be  an  end 
of  our  comradeship,  which  was  dear  to  me:  not  merely 
by  reason  of  the  pastry,  though  I  admit  that  was  a  con- 
sideration, but  also  for  his  wondrous  tales.  I  believed 
them  all  implicitly,  and  so  came  to  regard  him  as  one  of  the 
most  interesting  criminals  as  yet  unhanged  :  and  what  was 
sad  about  the  case,  as  I  felt  myself,  was  that  his  recital 
of  his  many  iniquities,  instead  of  repelling,  attracted  me 
to  him.  If  ever  there  existed  a  sinner,  here  was  one.  He 
chewed  tobacco — one  of  the  hundred  or  so  deadly  sins, 
according  to  my  theological  library — and  was  generally 
more  or  less  drunk.  Not  that  a  stranger  would  have 
noticed  this;  the  only  difference  being  that  when  sober 
he  appeared  constrained — was  less  his  natural,  genial  self. 
In  a  burst  of  confidence  he  once  admitted  to  me  that  he  was 
the  biggest  blackguard  in  the  merchant  service.  Unac- 
quainted with  the  merchant  service,  as  at  the  time  I  was, 
I  saw  no  reason  to  doubt  him. 

One  night  in  a  state  of  intoxication  he  walked  over  a 
gangway  and  was  drowned.  Our  mutual  friend,  the  con- 
fectioner, seeing  me  pass  the  window,  came  out  to  tell  me 
so ;  and  having  heard,  I  walked  on,  heavy  of  heart,  and 
pondering. 

About  his  eternal  destination  there  could  be  no  question. 


74  Paul  Kelver 

The  known  facts  precluded  the  least  ray  of  hope.  How- 
could  I  be  happy  in  heaven,  supposing  I  eventually  did 
succeed  in  slipping  in,  knowing  that  he,  the  lovable  old 
scamp,  was  burning  for  ever  in  hell? 

How  could  Janet,  taking  it  that  she  reformed  and  thus 
escaped  damnation,  be  contented,  knowing  the  father  she 
loved  doomed  to  torment?  The  heavenly  hosts,  so  I 
argued,  could  be  composed  only  of  the  callous  and  indif- 
ferent. 

I  wondered  how  people  could  go  about  their  business, 
eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  with  tremendous  fate  hanging 
thus  ever  suspended  over  their  heads.  When  for  a  little 
space  I  myself  forgot  it,  always  it  fell  back  upon  me  with 
increased  weight. 

Nor  was  the  contemplation  of  heaven  itself  particularly 
attractive  to  me,  for  it  was  a  foolish  paradise  these  foolish 
voices  had  fashioned  out  of  their  folly.  You  stood  about 
and  sang  hymns — for  ever!  I  was  assured  that  my  fear 
of  finding  the  programme  monotonous  was  due  only  to 
my  state  of  original  sin,  that  when  I  got  there  I  should 
discover  I  liked  it.  But  I  would  have  given  much  for  the 
hope  of  avoiding  both  their  heaven  and  their  hell. 

Fortunately  for  my  sanity  I  was  not  left  long  to  brood 
unoccupied  upon  such  themes.  Our  worldly  affairs,  under 
the  sunshine  of  old  Hasluck's  round  red  face,  prospered — 
for  awhile;  and  one  afternoon  my  father,  who  had  been 
away  from  home  since  breakfast  time,  calling  me  into  his 
office,  where  also  sat  my  mother,  informed  me  that  the 
long-talked-of  school  was  become  at  last  a  concrete  thing. 

"The  term  commences  next  week,"  explained  my 
father.  "It  is  not  exactly  what  I  had  intended,  but  it  will 
do — for  the  present.  Later,  of  course,  you  will  go  to  one 
of  the  big  public  schools ;  your  mother  and  I  have  not  yet 
quite  decided  which." 

"You  will  meet  other  boys  there,  good  and  bad,"  said 
my  mother,  who  sat  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands. 


Meets  the  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     j^ 

"Be  very  careful,  dear,  how  you  choose  your  com- 
panions." 

"You  will  learn  to  take  your  own  part,"  said  my  father. 
"School  is  an  epitome  of  the  world.  One  must  assert 
oneself,  or  one  is  sat  upon." 

I  knew  not  what  to  reply,  the  vista  thus  opened  out  to 
me  was  so  unexpected.  My  blood  rejoiced,  but  my  heart 
sank. 

"Take  one  of  your  long  walks,"  said  my  father,  smil- 
ing, "and  think  it  over." 

"And  if  you  are  in  any  doubt,  you  know  where  to  go 
for  guidance,  don't  you  ?"  whispered  my  mother,  who  was 
very  grave. 

Yet  I  went  to  bed,  dreaming  of  quite  other  things  that 
night:  of  Queens  of  Beauty  bending  down  to  crown  my 
brows  with  laurel :  of  wronged  Princesses  for  whose  cause 
I  rode  to  death  or  victory.  For  on  my  return  home, 
being  called  into  the  drawing-room  by  my  father,  I  stood 
transfixed,  my  cap  in  hand,  staring  with  all  my  eyes  at 
the  vision  that  I  saw. 

No  such  wonder  had  I  ever  seen  before,  at  all  events, 
not  to  my  remembrance.  The  maidens  that  one  meets  in 
Poplar  streets  may  be  fair  enough  in  their  way,  but  their 
millinery  displays  them  not  to  advantage;  and  the  few 
lady  visitors  that  came  to  us  were  of  a  staid  and  matronly 
appearance.  Only  out  of  pictures  hitherto  had  such 
witchery  looked  upon  me ;  and  from  these  the  spell  faded 
as  one  gazed. 

I  heard  old  Hasluck's  smoky  voice  saying,  "My  little 
gell,  Barbara,"  and  I  went  nearer  to  her,  moving  uncon- 
sciously. 

"You  can  kiss  'er,"  said  the  smoky  voice  again;  "she 
won't  bite."  But  I  did  not  kiss  her.  Nor  ever  felt  I 
wanted  to,  upon  the  mouth. 

I  suppose  she  must  have  been  about  fourteen,  and  I  a 
little  over  ten,  though  tall  for  my  age.     Later  I  came  to 


jb  Paul  Kelver 

know  she  had  that  rare  gold  hair  that  holds  the  light,  so 
that  upon  her  face,  which  seemed  of  dainty  porcelain, 
there  ever  fell  a  softened  radiance  as  from  some  shining 
aureole;  those  blue  eyes  where  dwell  mysteries,  shadow 
veiled.  At  the  time  I  knew  nothing,  but  that  it  seemed  to 
me  as  though  the  fairy-tales  had  all  come  true. 

She  smiled,  understanding  and  well  pleased  with  my 
confusion.  Child  though  I  was — little  more  than  child 
though  she  was,  it  flattered  her  vanity. 

Fair  and  sweet,  you  had  but  that  one  fault.  Would  it 
had  been  another,  less  cruel  to  you  yourself. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN    WHICH    THERE    COMES   BY   ONE    BENT   UPON    PURSUING 
HIS  OWN   WAY. 

"Correct"  is,  I  think,  the  adjective  by  which  I  can  best 
describe  Doctor  Florret  and  all  his  attributes.  He  was  a 
large  man,  but  not  too  large — just  the  size  one  would 
select  for  the  head-master  of  an  important  middle-class 
school ;  stout,  not  fat,  suggesting  comfort,  not  grossness. 
His  hands  were  white  and  well  shaped.  On  the  left 
he  wore  a  fine  diamond  ring,  but  it  shone  rather  than 
sparkled.  He  spoke  of  commonplace  things  in  a  voice 
that  lent  dignity  even  to  the  weather.  His  face,  which 
was  clean-shaven,  radiated  benignity  tempered  by  discre- 
tion. 

So  likewise  all  about  him :  his  wife,  the  feminine  coun- 
terpart of  himself.  Seeing  them  side  by  side  one  felt 
tempted  to  believe  that  for  his  special  benefit  original 
methods  had  been  reverted  to,  and  she  fashioned,  as  his 
particular  helpmeet,  out  of  one  of  his  own  ribs.  His 
furniture  was  solid,  meant  for  use,  not  decoration.  His 
pictures,  following  the  rule  laid  down  for  dress,  graced 
without  drawing  attention  to  his  walls.  He  ever  said  the 
correct  thing  at  the  correct  time  in  the  correct  manner. 
Doubtful  of  the  correct  thing  to  do,  one  could  always 
learn  it  by  waiting  till  he  did  it ;  when  one  at  once  felt  that 
nothing  else  could  possibly  have  been  correct.  He  held 
on  all  matters  the  correct  views.  To  differ  from  him  was 
to  discover  oneself  a  revolutionary. 

In  practice,  as  I  learned  at  the  cost  of  four  more  or  less 


yS  Paul  Kelver 

wasted  years,  he  of  course  followed  the  methods  con- 
sidered correct  by  English  schoolmen  from  the  days  of 
Edward  VI.  onwards. 

Heaven  knows  I  worked  hard.  I  wanted  to  learn. 
Ambition — the  all  containing  ambition  of  a  boy  that  "has 
its  centre  everywhere  nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form"  stir- 
red within  me.  Did  I  pass  a  speaker  at  some  corner,  hat- 
less,  perspiring,  pointing  Utopias  in  the  air  to  restless 
hungry  eyes,  at  once  I  saw  myself,  a  Demosthenes  sway- 
ing multitudes,  a  statesman  holding  the  House  of  Com- 
mons spellbound,  the  Prime  Minister  of  England,  wor- 
shipped by  the  entire  country.  Even  the  Opposition 
papers,  had  I  known  of  them,  I  should  have  imagined 
forced  to  reluctant  admiration.  Did  the  echo  of  a  distant 
drum  fall  upon  my  ear,  then  before  me  rose  picturesque 
fields  of  carnage,  one  figure  ever  conspicuous:  Myself, 
well  to  the  frost,  isolated.  Promotion  in  the  British 
army  of  my  dream  being  a  matter  purely  of  merit,  I  re- 
turned Commander-in-Chief.  Vast  crowds  thronged 
every  flag-decked  street.  I  saw  white  waving  hands 
from  every  roof  and  window.  I  heard  the  dull,  deep  roar 
of  welcome,  as  with  superb  seat  upon  my  snow-white 
charger — or  should  it  be  coal-black?  The  point  cost  me 
much  consideration,  so  anxious  was  I  that  the  day  should 
be  without  a  flaw — I  slowly  paced  at  the  head  of  my  vic- 
torious troops,  between  wild  waves  of  upturned  faces: 
walked  into  a  lamp-post  or  on  to  the  toes  of  some  irascible 
old  gentleman,  and  awoke.  A  drunken  sailor  stormed 
from  between  swing  doors  and  tacked  tumultuously  down 
the  street :  the  factory  chimney  belching  smoke  became  a 
swaying  mast.  The  costers  round  about  me  shouted 
''Ay,  ay,  sir."  "Ready,  ay,  ready."  I  was  Christopher 
Columbus,  Drake,  Nelson,  rolled  into  one.  Spurning  the 
presumption  of  modern  geographers,  I  discovered  new 
continents.  I  defeated  the  French — those  useful  French ! 
I  died  in  the  moment  of  victory.  A  nation  mourned  me 
and  I  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.     Also  I  lived 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way     79 

and  was  created  a  Duke.  Either  alternative  had  its  charm : 
personally  I  was  indifferent.  Boys  who  on  November  the 
ninth,  as  explained  by  letters  from  their  mothers,  read  by 
Doctor  Florret  with  a  snort,  were  suffering  from  a  severe 
toothache,  told  me  on  November  the  tenth  of  the  glories 
of  Lord  Mayor's  Shows.  I  heard  their  chatter  fainter 
and  fainter  as  from  an  ever-increasing  distance. 
The  bells  of  Bow  were  ringing  in  my  ears.  I  saw 
myself  a  merchant  prince,  though  still  young.  Nobles 
crowded  my  counting  house.  I  lent  them  millions 
and  married  their  daughters.  I  listened,  unobserved 
in  a  corner,  to  discussion  on  some  new  book.  Im- 
mediately I  was  a  famous  author.  All  men  praised  me : 
for  of  reviewers  and  their  density  I,  in  those  days,  knew 
nothing.  Poetry,  fiction,  history,  I  wrote  them  all;  and 
all  men  read,  and  wondered.  Only  here  was  a  crumpled 
rose  leaf  in  the  pillow  on  which  I  laid  my  swelling  head : 
penmanship  was  vexation  to  me,  and  spelling  puzzled  me, 
so  that  I  wrote  with  sorrow  and  many  blots  and  scratch- 
ings  out.  Almost  I  put  aside  the  idea  of  becoming  an 
author. 

But  along  whichever  road  I  might  fight  my  way  to  the 
Elysian  Fields  of  fame,  education,  I  dimly  but  most  cer- 
tainly comprehended,  was  a  necessary  weapon  to  my 
hand.  And  so,  with  aching  heart  and  aching  head,  I 
pored  over  my  many  books.  I  see  myself  now  in  my 
small  bedroom,  my  elbows  planted  on  the  shaky,  one- 
legged  table,  startled  every  now  and  again  by  the  friz- 
zling of  my  hair  coming  in  contact  with  the  solitary  can- 
dle. On  cold  nights  I  wear  my  overcoat,  turned  up  about 
the  neck,  a  blanket  round  my  legs,  and  often  I  must  sit 
with  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  the  better  to  shut  out  the 
sounds  of  life,  rising  importunately  from  below.  "A 
song.  Of  a  song,  To  a  song,  A  song,  O !  song !"  "I  love. 
Thou  lovest.  He  she  or  it  loves.  I  should  or  would 
love"  over  and  over  again,  till  my  own  voice  seems  some 
strange  buzzing  thing  about  me,  while  my  head  grows 


8o  Paul  Kelver 

smaller  and  smaller  till  I  put  my  hands  up  frightened, 
wondering  if  it  still  be  entire  upon  my  shoulders. 

Was  I  more  stupid  than  the  average,  or  is  a  boy's  brain 
physically  incapable  of  the  work  our  educational  system 
demands  of  it? 

"Latin  and  Greek"  I  hear  repeating  the  suave  tones  of 
Doctor  Florret,  echoing  as  ever  the  solemn  croak  of  Cor- 
rectness, "are  useful  as  mental  gymnastics."  My  dear 
Doctor  Florret  and  Co.,  cannot  you,  out  of  the  vast  store- 
house of  really  necessary  knowledge,  select  apparatus  bet- 
ter fitted  to  strengthen  and  not  overstrain  the  mental 
muscles  of  ten-to-fourteen  ?  You,  gentle  reader,  with 
brain  fully  grown,  trained  by  years  of  practice  to  its 
subtlest  uses,  take  me  from  your  bookshelf,  say,  your 
Browning  or  even  your  Shakespeare.  Come,  you  know 
this  language  well.  You  have  not  merely  learned :  it  is 
your  mother  tongue.  Construe  for  me  this  short  pas- 
sage, these  few  verses :  parse,  analyse,  resolve  into  com- 
ponent parts !  And  now,  will  you  maintain  that  it  is  good 
for  Tommy,  tear-stained,  ink-bespattered  little  brat,  to  be 
given  ^sop's  Fables,  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  to  treat  in 
like  manner?  Would  it  not  be  just  as  sensible  to  insist 
upon  his  practising  his  skinny  little  arms  with  hundred 
pounds  dumb-bells  ? 

We  were  the  sons  of  City  men,  of  not  well-to-do  pro- 
fessional men,  of  minor  officials,  clerks,  shopkeepers,  our 
roads  leading  through  the  workaday  world.  Yet  quite 
half  our  time  was  taken  up  in  studies  utterly  useless  to  us. 
How  I  hated  them,  these  youth-tormenting  Shades. 
Homer!  how  I  wished  the  fishermen  had  asked  him  that 
absurd  riddle  earlier.  Horace !  why  could  not  that  ship- 
wreck have  succeeded :  it  would  have  in  the  case  of  any 
one  but  a  classic. 

Until  one  blessed  day  there  fell  into  my  hands  a  won- 
drous talisman. 

Hearken  unto  me,  ye  heavy  burdened  little  brethren  of 
mine.     Waste  not  your  substance  upon  tops  and  marbles, 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way      8i 

nor  yet  upon  tuck  (Do  ye  still  call  it  "tuck"?),  but 
scrape  and  save.  For  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Pater- 
noster Row  there  dwells  a  good  magician  who  for  silver 
will  provide  you  with  a  ''Key"  that  shall  open  wide  for 
you  the  gates  of  Hades. 

By  its  aid,  the  Frogs  of  Aristophanes  became  my  merry 
friends.  With  Ulysses  I  wandered  eagerly  through 
Wonderland.  Doctor  Florret  was  charmed  with  my 
progress,  which  was  real,  for  now,  at  last,  I  was  studying 
according  to  the  laws  of  common  sense,  understanding 
first,  explaining  afterwards.  Let  Youth,  that  the  folly  of 
Age  would  imprison  in  ignorance,  provide  itself  with 
"Keys." 

But  let  me  not  seem  to  claim  credit  due  to  another. 
Dan  it  was — Dan  of  the  strong  arm  and  the  soft  smile, 
Dan  the  wise  hater  of  all  useless  labour,  sharp-witted, 
easy-going  Dan,  who  made  this  grand  discovery. 

Dan  followed  me  a  term  later  into  the  Lower  Fourth, 
but  before  he  had  been  there  a  week  was  handling  Latin 
verse  with  an  ease  and  dexterity  suggestive  of  unholy 
dealings  with  the  Devil.  In  a  lonely  corner  of  Regent's 
Park,  first  making  sure  no  one  was  within  earshot,  he  re- 
vealed to  me  his  magic. 

"Don't  tell  the  others,"  he  commanded;  "or  it  will  get 
out,  and  then  nobody  will  be  any  the  better." 

"But  is  it  right  ?"  I  asked. 

"Look  here,  young  'un,"  said  Dan ;  "what  are  you  here 
for — what's  your  father  paying  school  fees  for  (it  was  the 
appeal  to  our  conscientiousness  most  often  employed  by 
Dr.  Florret  himself),  for  you  to  play  a  silly  game,  or  to 
learn  something  ? 

"Because  if  it's  only  a  game — we  boys  against  the  mas- 
ters," continued  Dan,  "then  let's  play  according  to  rule. 
If  we're  here  to  learn — well,  you've  been  in  the  class  four 
months  and  I've  just  come,  and  I  bet  I  know  more  Ovid 
than  you  do  already."     Which  was  true. 

So  I  thanked  Dan  and  shared  with  him  his  key ;  and  all 


82  Paul  Kelver 

the  Latin  I  remember,  for  whatever  good  it  may  be  to  me, 
I  take  it  I  owe  to  him. 

And  knowledge  of  yet  greater  value  do  I  owe  to  the 
good  fortune  that  his  sound  mother  wit  was  ever  at  my 
disposal  to  correct  my  dreamy  unfeasibility ;  for  from 
first  to  last  he  was  my  friend ;  and  to  have  been  the  chosen 
friend  of  Dan,  shrewd  judge  of  man  and  boy,  I  deem  no 
unimportant  feather  in  my  cap.  He  "took  to"  me,  he 
said,  because  I  was  "so  jolly  green" — "such  a  rummy 
little  mug."  No  other  reason  would  he  ever  give  me, 
save  only  a  sweet  smile  and  a  tumbling  of  my  hair  with 
his  great  hand;  but  I  think  I  understood.  And  I  loved 
him  because  he  was  big  and  strong  and  handsome  and 
kind;  no  one  but  a  little  boy  knows  how  brutal  or  how 
kind  a  big  boy  can  be.  I  was  still  somewhat  of  an  effemi- 
nate little  chap,  nervous  and  shy,  with  a  pink  and  white 
face,  and  hair  that  no  amount  of  wetting  would  make 
straight.  I  was  growing  too  fast,  which  took  what 
strength  I  had,  and  my  journey  every  day,  added  to 
school  work  and  home  work,  maybe  was  too  much  for 
my  years.  Every  morning  I  had  to  be  up  at  six,  leaving 
the  house  before  seven  to  catch  the  seven  fifteen  from 
Poplar  station ;  and  from  Chalk  Farm  I  had  to  walk  yet 
another  couple  of  miles.  But  that  I  did  not  mind,  for  at 
Chalk  Farm  station  Dan  was  always  waiting  for  me.  In 
the  afternoon  we  walked  back  together  also ;  and  when  I 
was  tired  and  my  back  ached — just  as  if  some  one  had  cut 
a  piece  out  of  it,  I  felt — he  would  put  his  arm  round  me, 
for  he  always  knew,  and  oh,  how  strong  and  restful  it 
was  to  lean  against,  so  that  one  walked  as  in  an  easy-chair. 

It  seems  to  me,  remembering  how  I  would  walk  thus  by 
his  side,  looking  up  shyly  into  his  face,  thinking  how 
strong  and  good  he  was,  feeling  so  glad  he  liked  me,  I 
can  understand  a  little  how  a  woman  loves.  He  was  so 
solid.     With  his  arm  round  me,  it  was  good  to  feel  weak. 

At  first  we  were  in  the  same  class,  the  Lower  Third. 
He  had  no  business  there.     He  was  head  and  shoulders 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way     83 

taller  than  any  of  us  and  years  older.  It  was  a  disgrace 
to  him  that  he  was  not  in  the  Upper  Fourth.  The  Doctor 
would  tell  him  so  before  us  all  twenty  times  a  week.  Old 
Waterhouse  (I  call  him  "Old  Waterhouse"  because 
"Mister  Waterhouse,  M.A.,"  would  convey  no  meaning  to 
me,  and  I  should  not  know  about  whom  I  was  speaking) 
who  cordially  liked  him,  was  honestly  grieved.  We,  his 
friends,  though  it  was  pleasant  to  have  him  among  us, 
suffered  in  our  pride  of  him.  The  only  person  quite  con- 
tented was  Dan  himself.  It  was  his  way  in  all  things. 
Others  had  their  opinion  of  what  was  good  for  him.  He 
had  his  own,  and  his  own  was  the  only  opinion  that  ever 
influenced  him.  The  Lower  Third  suited  him.  For 
him  personally  the  Upper  Fourth  had  no  attraction. 

And  even  in  the  Lower  Third  he  was  always  at  the 
bottom.  He  preferred  it.  He  selected  the  seat  and  kept 
it,  in  spite  of  all  allurements,  in  spite  of  all  reproaches. 
It  was  nearest  to  the  door.  It  enabled  him  to  be  first  out 
and  last  in.  Also  it  afforded  a  certain  sense  of  retire- 
ment. Its  occupant,  to  an  extent  screened  from  observa- 
tion, became  in  the  course  of  time  almost  forgotten.  To 
Dan's  philosophical  temperament  its  practical  advantages 
outweighed  all  sentimental  objection. 

Only  on  one  occasion  do  I  remember  his  losing  it.  As 
a  rule,  tiresome  questions,  concerning  past  participles, 
square  roots,  or  meridians  never  reached  him,  being 
snapped  up  in  transit  by  arm-waving  lovers  of  such  trifles. 
The  few  that  by  chance  trickled  so  far  he  took  no  notice 
of.  They  possessed  no  interest  for  him,  and  he  never 
pretended  that  they  did.  But  one  day,  taken  off  his 
guard,  he  gave  voice  quite  unconsciously  to  a  correct  re- 
ply, with  the  immediate  result  of  finding  himself  in  an 
exposed  position  on  the  front  bench.  I  had  never  seen 
Dan  out  of  temper  before,  but  that  moment  had  any  of  us 
ventured  upon  a  whispered  congratulation  we  would  have 
had  our  head  punched,  I  feel  confident. 

Old  Waterhouse  thought  that  here  at  last  was  reforma- 


84  Paul  Kelver 

tion.  "Come,  Brian,"  he  cried,  rubbing  his  long  thin 
hands  together  with  deHght,  "after  all,  you're  not  such  a 
fool  as  you  pretend." 

"Never  said  I  was,"  muttered  Dan  to  himself,  with  a 
backward  glance  of  regret  towards  his  lost  seclusion ;  and 
before  the  day  was  out  he  had  worked  his  way  back  to 
it  again. 

As  we  were  going  out  together,  old  Waterhouse  passed 
us  on  the  stairs :  "Haven't  you  any  sense  of  shame,  my 
boy?"  he  asked  sorrowfully,  laying  his  hand  kindly  on 
Dan's  shoulder. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Dan,  with  his  frank  smile ;  "plenty. 
It  isn't  yours,  that's  all." 

He  was  an  excellent  fighter.  In  the  whole  school  of 
over  two  hundred  boys,  not  half  a  dozen,  and  those  only 
Upper  Sixth  boys — fellows  who  came  in  top  hats  with 
umbrellas,  and  who  wouldn't  out  of  regard  to  their  own 
dignity — could  have  challenged  him  with  any  chance  of 
success.  Yet  he  fought  very  seldom,  and  then  always  in 
a  bored,  lazy  fashion,  as  though  he  were  doing  it  purely  to 
oblige  the  other  fellow. 

One  afternoon,  just  as  we  were  about  to  enter  Regent's 
Park  by  the  wicket  opposite  Hanover  Gate,  a  biggish 
boy,  an  errand  boy  carrying  an  empty  basket,  and  sup- 
ported by  two  smaller  boys,  barred  our  way. 

"Can't  come  in  here,"  said  the  boy  with  the  basket. 

"Why  not  ?"  inquired  Dan. 

"  'Cos  if  you  do  I  shall  kick  you,"  was  the  simple  ex- 
planation. 

Without  a  word  Dan  turned  away,  prepared  to  walk 
on  to  the  next  opening.  The  boy  with  the  basket,  evi- 
dently encouraged,  followed  us :  "Now,  I'm  going  to  give 
you  your  coward's  blow,"  he  said,  stepping  in  front  of  us ; 
"will  you  take  it  quietly  ?"  It  is  a  lonely  way,  the  Outer 
Circle,  on  a  winter's  afternoon. 

"I'll  tell  you  afterwards,"  said  Dan,  stopping  short. 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way     85 

The  boy  gave  him  a  slight  slap  on  the  cheek.  It  could 
not  have  hurt,  but  the  indignity,  of  course,  was  great.  No 
boy  of  honour,  according  to  our  code,  could  have  accepted 
it  without  retaliating. 

'Is  that  all  ?"  asked  Dan. 

''That's  all — for  the  present,"  replied  the  boy  with  the 
basket. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Dan,  and  walked  on. 

"Glad  he  didn't  insist  on  fighting,"  remarked  Dan, 
cheerfully,  as  we  proceeded;  'T'm  going  to  a  party  to- 
night." 

Yet  on  another  occasion,  in  a  street  off  Lisson  Grove, 
he  insisted  on  fighting  a  young  rough  half  again  his  own 
weight,  who,  brushing  up  against  him,  had  knocked  his 
hat  off  into  the  mud. 

"I  wouldn't  have  said  anything  about  his  knocking  it 
off,"  explained  Dan  afterwards,  tenderly  brushing  the 
poor  bruised  thing  with  his  coat  sleeve,  "if  he  hadn't 
kicked  it." 

On  another  occasion  I  remember,  three  or  four  of  us, 
Dan  among  the  number,  were  on  our  way  one  broiling 
summer's  afternoon  to  Hadley  Woods.  As  we  turned  off 
form  the  highroad  just  beyond  Barnet  and  struck  into  the 
fields,  Dan  drew  from  his  pocket  an  enormous  juicy- 
looking  pear. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  from  ?"  inquired  one,  Dudley. 

"From  that  big  greengrocer's  opposite  Barnet  Church," 
answered  Dan.     "Have  a  bit?" 

"You  told  me  you  hadn't  any  more  money,"  retorted 
Dudley,  in  reproachful  tones. 

"No  more  I  had,"  replied  Dan,  holding  out  a  tempting 
slice  at  the  end  of  his  pocket-knife. 

"You  must  have  had  some,  or  you  couldn't  have  bought 
that  pear,"  argued  Dudley,  accepting. 

"Didn't  buy  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  stole  it?" 


86  Paul  Kelver 

"Yes." 

"You're  a  thief,"  denounced  Dudley,  wiping  his  mouth 
and  throwing  away  a  pip. 

"I  know  it.     So  are  you." 

"No,  Fm  not." 

"What's  the  good  of  talking  nonsense.  You  robbed  an 
orchard  only  last  Wednesday  at  Mill  Hill,  and  gave  your- 
self the  stomach-ache." 

"That  isn't  stealing." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It  isn't  the  same  thing." 

"What's  the  difference?" 

And  nothing  could  make  Dan  comprehend  the  differ- 
ence. "Stealing  is  stealing,"  he  would  have  it,  "whether 
you  take  it  off  a  tree  or  out  of  a  basket.  You're  a  thief, 
Dudley ;  so  am  I.     Anybody  else  say  a  piece  ?" 

The  thermometer  was  at  that  point  where  morals  be- 
come slack.  We  all  had  a  piece;  but  we  were  all  of  us 
shocked  at  Dan,  and  told  him  so.  It  did  not  agitate  him 
in  the  least. 

To  Dan  I  could  speak  my  inmost  thoughts,  knowing 
he  would  understand  me,  and  sometimes  from  him  I  re- 
ceived assistance  and  sometimes  confusion.  The  yearly 
examination  was  approaching.  My  father  and  mother 
said  nothing,  but  I  knew  how  anxiously  each  of  them 
awaited  the  result;  my  father,  to  see  how  much  I  had 
accomplished ;  my  mother,  how  much  I  had  endeavoured. 
I  had  worked  hard,  but  was  doubtful,  knowing  that  prizes 
depend  less  upon  what  you  know  than  upon  what  you  can 
make  others  believe  you  know;  which  applies  to  prizes 
beyond  those  of  school. 

"Are  you  going  in  for  anything,  Dan?"  I  asked  him. 
We  were  discussing  the  subject,  crossing  Primrose  Hill, 
one  bright  June  morning. 

I  knew  the  question  absurd.  I  asked  it  of  him  because 
I  wanted  him  to  ask  it  of  me. 

"They're    not    giving    away    anything    I    particularly 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way     87 

want,"  murmured  Dan,  in  his  lazy  drawl :  looked  at  from 
that  point  of  view,  school  prizes  are,  it  must  be  confessed, 
not  worth  their  cost. 

"You're  sweating  yourself,  young  'un,  of  course?"  he 
asked  next,  as  I  expected. 

"I  mean  to  have  a  shot  at  the  History,"  I  admitted. 
"Wish  I  was  better  at  dates." 

"It's  always  two-thirds  dates,"  Dan  assured  me,  to  my 
discouragement.  "Old  Florret  thinks  you  can't  eat  a 
potato  until  you  know  the  date  that  chap  Raleigh  was 
born." 

"I've  prayed  so  hard  that  I  may  win  the  History  prize," 
I  explained  to  him,  I  never  felt  shy  with  Dan.  He  never 
laughed  at  me. 

"You  oughtn't  to  have  done  that,"  he  said.  I  stared. 
"It  isn't  fair  to  the  other  fellows.  That  won't  be  your  win- 
ning the  prize ;  that  will  be  your  getting  it  through  favour- 
itism." 

"But  they  can  pray,  too,"  I  reminded  him. 

"If  you  all  pray  for  it,"  answered  Dan,  '^then  it  will  go, 
not  to  the  fellow  that  knows  most  history,  but  to  the  fel- 
low that's  prayed  the  hardest.  That  isn't  old  Florret's 
idea,  I'm  sure." 

"But  we  are  told  to  pray  for  things  we  want,"  I  insisted. 

"Beastly  mean  way  of  getting  'em,"  retorted  Dan.  And 
no  argument  that  came  to  me,  neither  then  nor  at  any 
future  time,  brought  him  to  right  thinking  on  this  point. 

He  would  judge  all  matters  for  himself.  In  his  opinion 
Achilles  was  a  coward,  not  a  hero. 

"He  ought  to  have  told  the  Trojans  that  they  couldn't 
hurt  any  part  of  him  except  his  heel,  and  let  them  have  a 
shot  at  that,"  he  argued ;  "King  Arthur  and  all  the  rest 
of  them  with  their  magic  swords,  it  wasn't  playing  the 
game.  There's  no  pluck  in  fighting  if  you  know  you're 
bound  to  win.    Beastly  cads,  I  call  them  all." 

I  won  no  prize  that  year.  Oddly  enough,  Dan  did,  for 
arithmetic;  the  only  subject  studied  in  the  Lower  Fourth 


88  Paul  Kelver 

that  interested  him.  He  liked  to  see  things  coming  right, 
he  explained. 

My  father  shut  himself  up  with  me  for  half  an  hour 
and  examined  me  himself. 

''It's  very  curious,  Paul,"  he  said,  *'you  seem  to  know  a 
good  deal." 

''They  asked  me  all  the  things  I  didn't  know.  They 
seemed  to  do  it  on  purpose,"  I  blurted  out,  and  laid  my 
head  upon  my  arm.  My  father  crossed  the  room  and  sat 
down  beside  me. 

"Spud !"  he  said — it  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  called 
me  by  that  childish  nickname — "perhaps  you  are  going  to 
be  with  me,  one  of  the  unlucky  ones." 

"Are  you  unlucky  ?"  I  asked. 

"Invariably,"  answered  my  father,  rumpling  his  hair. 
"I  don't  know  why.  I  try  hard — I  do  the  right  thing,  but 
it  turns  out  wrong.     It  always  does." 

"But  I  thought  Mr.  Hasluck  was  bringing  us  such  good 
fortune,"  I  said,  looking  up  in  surprise.  "We're  getting 
on,  aren't  we?" 

"I  have  thought  so  before,  so  often,"  said  my  father, 
"and  it  has  always  ended  in  a — in  a  collapse." 

I  put  my  arms  round  his  neck,  for  I  always  felt  to  my 
father  as  to  another  boy;  bigger  than  myself  and  older, 
but  not  so  very  much. 

"You  see,  when  I  married  your  mother,"  he  went  on,  "I 
was  a  rich  man.     She  had  everything  she  wanted." 

"But  you  will  get  it  all  back,"  I  cried. 

"I  try  to  think  so,"  he  answered.  "I  do  think  so — gen- 
erally speaking.  But  there  are  times — you  would  not  un- 
derstand— they  come  to  you." 

"But  she  is  happy,"  I  persisted ;  "we  are  all  happy." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  watch  her,"  he  said.  "Women  suffer  more  than  we 
do.  They  live  more  in  the  present.  I  see  my  hopes,  but 
she — she  sees  only  me,  and  I  have  always  been  a  failure. 
She  has  lost  faith  in  me." 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way     89 

I  could  say  nothing.    I  understood  but  dimly. 

''That  is  why  I  want  you  to  be  an  educated  man,  Paul," 
he  continued  after  a  silence.  ''You  can't  think  what  a 
help  education  is  to  a  man.  I  don't  mean  it  helps  you  to 
get  on  in  the  world;  I  think  for  that  it  rather  hampers 
you.  But  it  helps  you  to  bear  adversity.  To  a  man  with  a 
well-stored  mind,  life  is  interesting  on  a  piece  of  bread 
and  a  cup  of  tea.  I  know.  If  it  were  not  for  you  and 
your  mother  I  should  not  trouble." 

And  yet  at  that  time  our  fortunes  were  at  their  bright- 
est, so  far  as  I  remember  them ;  and  when  they  were  dark 
again  he  was  full  of  fresh  hope,  planning,  scheming, 
dreaming  again.  It  was  never  acting.  A  worse  actor 
never  trod  this  stage  on  which  we  fret.  His  occasional 
attempts  at  a  cheerfulness  he  did  not  feel  inevitably  re- 
sulted in  our  all  three  crying  in  one  another's  arms.  No ; 
it  was  only  when  things  were  going  well  that  experience 
came  to  his  injury.  Child  of  misfortune,  he  ever  rose, 
Antaeus-like,  renewed  in  strength  from  contact  with  his 
mother. 

Nor  must  it  be  understood  that  his  despondent  moods, 
even  in  time  of  prosperity,  were  oft  recurring.  Generally 
speaking,  as  he  himself  said,  he  was  full  of  confidence. 
Already  had  he  fixed  upon  our  new  house  in  Guilford 
Street,  then  still  a  good  residential  quarter;  while  at  the 
same  time,  as  he  would  explain  to  my  mother,  sufficiently 
central  for  office  purposes,  close  as  it  was  to  Lincoln  and 
Grey's  Inn  and  Bedford  Row,  pavements  long  worn  with 
the  weary  footsteps  of  the  Law's  sad  courtiers. 

"Poplar,"  said  my  father,  "has  disappointed  me.  It 
seemed  a  good  idea — a  rapidly  rising  district,  singularly 
destitute  of  solicitors.  It  ought  to  have  turned  out  well, 
and  yet  somehow  it  hasn't." 

"There  have  been  a  few  come,"  my  mother  reminded 
him. 

"Of  a  sort,"  admitted  my  father;  "a  criminal  lawyer 
might  gather  something  of  a  practice  here,  I  have  no 


90  Paul  Kelver 

doubt.  But  for  general  work,  of  course,  you  must  be  in  a 
central  position.  Now,  in  Guilford  Street  people  will  come 
to  me/' 

"It  should  certainly  be  a  pleasanter  neighbourhood  to 
live  in,"  agreed  my  mother. 

"Later  on,"  said  my  father,  "in  case  I  want  the  whole 
house  for  offices,  we  could  live  ourselves  in  Regent's  Park. 
It  is  quite  near  to  the  Park." 

"Of  course  you  have  consulted  Mr.  Hasluck?"  asked 
my  mother,  who  of  the  two  was  by  far  the  more  practical. 

"For  Hasluck,"  replied  my  father,  "it  will  be  much 
more  convenient.  He  grumbles  every  time  at  the  dis- 
tance." 

"I  have  never  been  quite  able  to  understand,"  said  my 
mother,  "why  Mr.  Hasluck  should  have  come  so  far  out  of 
his  wav.  There  must  surely  be  plenty  of  solicitors  in  the 
City." " 

"He  had  heard  of  me,"  explained  my  father.  "A  curi- 
our  old  fellow — likes  his  own  way  of  doing  things.  It's 
not  everyone  who  would  care  for  him  as  a  client.  But  I 
seem  able  to  manage  him." 

Often  we  would  go  together,  my  father  and  I,  to  Guil- 
ford Street.  It  was  a  large  corner  house  that  had  taken 
his  fancy,  half  creeper  covered,  with  a  balcony,  and  pleas- 
antly situated,  overlooking  the  gardens  of  the  Foundling 
Hospital.  The  wizened  old  caretaker  knew  us  well,  and 
having  opened  the  door,  would  leave  us  to  wander  through 
the  empty,  echoing  rooms  at  our  own  will.  We  furnished 
them  handsomely  in  later  Queen  Anne  style,  of  which  my 
father  was  a  connoisseur,  sparing  no  necessary  expense ; 
for,  as  my  father  observed,  good  furniture  is  always  worth 
its  price,  while  to  buy  cheap  is  pure  waste  of  money. 

"This,"  said  my  father,  on  the  second  floor,  stepping 
from  the  bedroom  into  the  smaller  room  adjoining,  "I 
shall  make  your  mother's  boudoir.  We  will  have  the 
walls  in  lavender  and  maple  green — she  is  fond  of  soft 


Bent  Upon  Pursuing  His  Own  Way     91 

tones — and  the  window  looks  out  upon  the  gardens. 
There  we  will  put  her  writing--table," 

My  own  bedroom  was  on  the  third  floor,  a  sunny  little 
room. 

"You  will  be  quiet  here,"  said  my  father,  "and  we  can 
shut  out  the  bed  and  the  washstand  with  a  screen." 

Later,  I  came  to  occupy  it ;  though  its  rent — eight  and 
sixpence  a  week,  including  attendance — was  somewhat 
more  than  at  the  time  I  ought  to  have  afforded.  Never- 
theless, I  adventured  it,  taking  the  opportunity  of  being  an 
inmate  of  the  house  to  refurnish  it,  unknown  to  my  stout 
landlady,  in  later  Queen  Anne  style,  putting  a  neat  brass 
plate  with  my  father's  name  upon  the  door.  "Luke  Kel- 
ver.  Solicitor.  Oflice  hours,  10  till  4."  A  medical  stu- 
dent thought  he  occupied  my  mother's  boudoir.  He  was 
a  dull  dog,  full  of  tiresome  talk.  But  I  made  acquaintance- 
ship with  him ;  and  often  of  an  evening  would  smoke  my 
pipe  there  in  silence  while  pretending  to  be  listening  to  his 
monotonous  brag. 

The  poor  thing!  he  had  no  idea  that  he  was  only  a 
foolish  ghost;  that  his  walls,  seemingly  covered  with 
coarse-coloured  prints  of  wooden-looking  horses,  simper- 
ing ballet  girls  and  petrified  prize-fighters,  were  in  reality 
a  delicate  tone  of  lavender  and  maple  green ;  that  at  her 
writing-table  in  the  sunlit  window  sat  my  mother,  her  soft 
curls  curtaining  her  quiet  face. 


CHAPTER  VL 

OF  THE  SHADOW  THAT  CAME  BETWEEN  THE  MAN  IN  GREY 
AND  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LOVE-LIT  EYES. 

'There's  nothing  missing,"  said  my  mother,  "so  far  as 
I  can  find  out.  Depend  upon  it,  that's  the  explanation :  she 
has  got  frightened  and  has  run  away." 

"But  what  was  there  to  frighten  her?"  said  my  father, 
pausing  with  a  decanter  in  one  hand  and  the  bottle  in  the 
other. 

"It  was  the  idea  of  the  thing,"  replied  my  mother. 
"She  has  never  been  used  to  waiting  at  table.  She  was 
actually  crying  about  it  only  last  night." 

"But  what's  to  be  done?"  said  my  father.  "They  will 
be  here  in  less  than  an  hour." 

"There  will  be  no  dinner  for  them,"  said  my  mother, 
"unless  I  put  on  an  apron  and  bring  it  up  myself." 

"Where  does  she  live?"  asked  my  father. 

"At  Ilford,"  answered  my  mother. 

"We  must  make  a  joke  of  it,"  said  my  father. 

My  mother,  sitting  down,  began  to  cry.  It  had  been 
a  trying  week  for  my  mother.  A  party  to  dinner — to  a 
real  dinner,  beginning  with  anchovies  and  ending  with 
ices  from  the  confectioner's;  if  only  they  would  remain 
ices  and  not,  giving  way  to  unaccustomed  influences,  pre- 
sent themselves  as  cold  custard — was  an  extraordinary 
departure  from  the  even  tenor  of  our  narrow  domestic 
way;  indeed,  I  recollect  none  previous.  First  there  had 
been  the  house  to  clean  and  rearrange  almost  from  top 
to  bottom ;  endless  small  purchases  to  be  made  of  articles 
that  Need  never  misses,  but  which  Ostentation,  if  ever  you 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between 


93 


let  her  sneering  nose  inside  the  door,  at  once  demands. 
Then  the  kitchen  range — it  goes  without  saying:  one 
might  imagine  them  all  members  of  a  stove  union,  con- 
trolled by  some  agitating  old  boiler  out  of  work — had 
taken  the  opportunity  to  strike,  refusing  to  bake  another 
dish  except  under  permanently  improved  conditions,  ne- 
cessitating weary  days  with  plumbers.  Fat  cookery  books, 
long  neglected  on  their  shelf,  had  been  consulted,  argued 
with  and  abused ;  experiments  made,  failures  sighed  over, 
successes  noted;  cost  calculated  anxiously;  means  and 
ways  adjusted,  hope  finally  achieved,  shadowed  by  fear. 

And  now  with  victory  practically  won,  to  have  the  re- 
ward thus  dashed  from  her  hand  at  the  last  moment! 
Downstairs  in  the  kitchen  would  be  the  dinner,  waiting 
for  the  guests;  upstairs  round  the  glittering  table  would 
be  the  assembled  guests,  waiting  for  their  dinner.  But 
between  the  two  yawned  an  impassable  gulf.  The  bridge, 
without  a  word  of  warning,  had  bolted — was  probably  by 
this  time  well  on  its  way  to  Ilford.  There  was  excuse  for 
my  mother's  tears. 

"Isn't  it  possible  to  get  somebody  else?"  asked  my 
father. 

''Impossible,  in  the  time,"  said  my  mother.  'T  had  been 
training  her  for  the  whole  week.  We  had  rehearsed  it 
perfectly." 

"Have  it  in  the  kitchen,"  suggested  my  aunt,  who  was 
folding  napkins  to  look  like  ships,  which  they  didn't  in  the 
least,  "and  call  it  a  picnic."  Really  it  seemed  the  only 
practical  solution. 

There  came  a  light  knock  at  the  front  door. 

"It  can't  be  anybody  yet,  surely,"  exclaimed  my  father 
in  alarm,  making  for  his  coat. 

"It's  Barbara,  I  expect,"  explained  my  mother.  "She 
promised  to  come  round  and  help  me  dress.  But  now,  of 
course,  I  shan't  want  her."  My  mother's  nature  was  pes- 
simistic. 

But  with  the  words  Barbara  ran  into  the  room,  for  I 


94  Paul  Kelver 

had  taken  it  upon  myself  to  admit  her,  knowing  that  shad- 
ows sHpped  out  through  the  window  when  Barbara  came 
in  at  the  door — in  those  days,  I  mean. 

She  kissed  them  all  three,  though  it  seemed  but  one 
movement,  she  was  so  quick.  And  at  once  they  saw  the 
humour  of  the  thing. 

"There's  going  to  be  no  dinner,"  laughed  my  father. 
"We  are  going  to  look  surprised  and  pretend  that  it  was 
yesterday.     It  will  be  fun  to  see  their  faces," 

"There  will  be  a  very  nice  dinner,"  smiled  my  mother, 
"but  it  will  be  in  the  kitchen,  and  there's  no  way  of  get- 
ting it  upstairs."     And  they  explained  to  her  the  situation. 

She  stood  for  an  instant,  her  sweet  face  the  gravest  in 
the  group.     Then  a  light  broke  upon  it. 

"I'll  get  you  someone,"  she  said. 

"My  dear,  you  don't  even  know  the  neighbourhood," 
began  my  mother.  But  Barbara  had  snatched  the  latch- 
key from  its  nail  and  was  gone. 

With  her  disappearance,  shadow  fell  again  upon  us. 

"If  there  were  only  an  hotel  in  this  beastly  neighbour- 
hood," said  my  father. 

"You  must  entertain  them  by  yourself,  Luke,"  said  my 
mother;  "and  I  must  wait — that's  all." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Maggie,"  cried  my  father,  getting 
angry.    "Can't  cook  bring  it  in?" 

"No  one  can  cook  a  dinner  and  serve  it,  too,"  answered 
my  mother,  impatiently.    "Besides,  she's  not  presentable." 

"What  about  Fan?"  whispered  my  father. 

My  mother  merely  looked.    It  was  sufficient. 

"Paul?"  suggested  my  father. 

"Thank  you,"  retorted  my  mother.  "I  don't  choose  to 
have  my  son  turned  into  a  footman,  if  you  do." 

"Well,  hadn't  you  better  go  and  dress?"  was  my  father's 
next  remark. 

"It  won't  take  me  long  to  put  on  an  apron,"  was  my 
mother's  reply. 

"I  was  looking  forward  to  seeing  you  in  that  new 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between     95 

frock,"  said  my  father.  In  the  case  of  another,  one  might 
have  attributed  such  a  speech  to  tact;  in  the  case  of  my 
father,  one  felt  it  was  a  happy  accident. 

My  mother  confessed — speaking  with  a  certain  in- 
dulgence, as  one  does  of  one's  own  follies  when  past — 
that  she  herself  also  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  herself 
therein.  Threatening  discord  melted  into  mutual  sym- 
pathy. 

''I  so  wanted  everything  to  be  all  right,  for  your  sake, 
Luke,"  said  my  mother;  "I  know  you  were  hoping  it 
would  help  on  the  business." 

'T  was  only  thinking  of  you,  Maggie,  dear,"  answered 
my  father.    "You  are  my  business." 

"I  know,  dear,"  said  my  mother.    "It  is  hard." 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  we  all  stood  quiet  to 
listen. 

"She's  come  back  alone,"  said  my  mother.  "I  knew  it 
was  hopeless." 

The  door  opened. 

"Please,  ma'am,"  said  the  new  parlour-maid,  "will  I 
do?" 

She  stood  there,  framed  by  the  lintel,  in  the  daintiest  of 
aprons,  the  daintiest  of  caps  upon  her  golden  hair;  and 
every  objection  she  swept  aside  with  the  wind  of  her 
merry  wilfulness.  No  one  ever  had  their  way  with  her, 
nor  wanted  it. 

"You  shall  be  footman,"  she  ordered,  turning  to  me— - 
but  this  time  my  mother  only  laughed.  "Wait  here  till  I 
come  down  again."  Then  to  my  mother :  "Now,  ma'am, 
are  you  ready  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  my  mother,  or,  indeed, 
any  other  flesh  and  blood  woman,  in  evening  dress,  and  to 
tell  the  truth  I  was  a  little  shocked.  Nay,  more  than  a 
little,  and  showed  it,  I  suppose;  for  my  mother  flushed 
and  drew  her  shawl  over  the  gleaming  whiteness  of  her 
shoulders,  pleading  coldness.  But  Barbara  cried  out 
against  this,  saying  it  was  a  sin  such  beauty  should  be 


96  Paul  Kelver 

hid ;  and  my  father,  filching  a  shawl  with  a  quick  hand, 
so  dextrously  indeed  as  to  suggest  some  previous  practice 
in  the  feat,  dropped  on  one  knee — as  though  the  world 
were  some  sweet  picture  book — and  raised  my  mother's 
hand  with  grave  reverence  to  his  lips ;  and  Barbara,  stand- 
ing behind  my  mother's  chair,  insisted  on  my  following 
suit,  saying  the  Queen  was  receiving.  So  I  knelt  also, 
glancing  up  shyly  as  towards  the  gracious  face  of  some 
fair  lady  hitherto  unknown,  thus  catching  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  philosophy  of  clothes. 

My  memory  lingers  upon  this  scene  by  contrast  with 
the  sad,  changed  days  that  swiftly  followed,  when  my 
mother's  eyes  would  flash  towards  my  father  angry 
gleams,  and  her  voice  ring  cruel  and  hard;  though  the 
moment  he  was  gone  her  lips  would  tremble  and  her  eyes 
grow  soft  again  and  fill  with  tears ;  when  my  father 
would  sit  with  averted  face  and  sullen  lips  tight  pressed, 
or  worse,  would  open  them  only  to  pour  forth  a  rapid 
flood  of  savage  speech ;  and  fling  out  of  the  room,  slam- 
ming the  door  behind  him,  and  I  would  find  him  hours 
afterwards,  sitting  alone  in  the  dark,  with  bowed  head 
between  his  hands. 

Wretched,  I  would  lie  awake,  hearing  through  the 
flimsy  walls  their  passionate  tones,  now  rising  high,  now 
fiercely  forced  into  cold  whispers;  and  then  their  words 
to  each  other  sounded  even  crueller. 

In  their  estrangement  from  each  other,  so  new  to 
them,  both  clung  closer  to  me,  though  they  would  tell  me 
nothing,  nor  should  I  have  understood  if  they  had.  When 
my  mother  was  sobbing  softly,  her  arms  clasping  me 
tighter  and  tighter  with  each  quivering  throb,  then  I  hated 
my  father,  who  I  felt  had  inflicted  this  sorrow  upon  her. 
Yet  when  my  father  drew  me  down  upon  his  knee,  and  I 
looked  into  his  kind  eyes  so  full  of  pain,  then  I  felt  angry 
with  my  mother,  remembering  her  bitter  tongue. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  though  some  cruel,  unseen  thing  had 
crept  into  the  house  to  stand  ever  between  them,  so  that 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between     97 

they  might  never  look  into  each  other's  loving  eyes  but 
only  into  the  eyes  of  this  evil  shadow.  The  idea  grew 
upon  me  until  at  times  I  could  almost  detect  its  outline  in 
the  air,  feel  a  chillness  as  it  passed  me.  It  trod  silently 
through  the  pokey  rooms,  always  alert  to  thrust  its  grin- 
ning face  before  them.  Now  beside  my  mother  it  would 
whisper  in  her  ear ;  and  the  next  moment,  stealing  across 
to  my  father,  answer  for  him  with  his  voice,  but  strangely 
different.  I  used  to  think  I  could  hear  it  laughing  to 
itself  as  it  stepped  back  into  enfolding  space. 

To  this  day  I  seem  to  see  it,  ever  following  with  noise- 
less footsteps  man  and  woman,  waiting  patiently  its  op- 
portunity to  thrust  its  face  between  them.  So  that  I  can 
read  no  love  tale,  but,  glancing  round,  I  see  its  mocking 
eyes  behind  my  shoulder,  reading  also,  with  a  silent  laugh. 
So  that  never  can  I  meet  with  boy  and  girl,  whispering 
in  the  twilight,  but  I  see  it  lurking  amid  the  half  lights, 
just  behind  them,  creeping  after  them  with  stealthy  tread, 
as  hand  in  hand  they  pass  me  in  quiet  ways. 

Shall  any  of  us  escape,  or  lies  the  road  of  all  through 
this  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  dead  love  ?  Is  it  Love's 
ordeal  ?  testing  the  feeble-hearted  from  the  strong  in  faith, 
who  shall  find  each  other  yet  again,  the  darkness  passed? 

Of  the  dinner  itself,  until  time  of  dessert,  I  can  give  no 
consecutive  account,  for  as  footman,  under  the  orders  of 
this  enthusiastic  parlour-maid,  my  place  was  no  sinecure, 
and  but  few  opportunities  of  observation  through  the 
crack  of  the  door  were  afforded  me.  All  that  was  clear 
to  me  was  that  the  chief  guest  was  a  Mr.  Teidelmann — or 
Tiedelmann,  I  cannot  now  remember  which — a  snuffy, 
mumbling  old  frump,  with  whose  name  then,  however, 
I  was  familiar  by  reason  of  seeing  it  so  often  in  huge  let- 
ters, though  with  a  Co.  added,  on  dreary  long  blank  walls, 
bordering  the  Limehouse  reach.  He  sat  at  my  mother's 
right  hand ;  and  I  wondered,  noticing  him  so  ugly  and  so 
foolish  seeming,  how  she  could  be  so  interested  in  him, 
shouting  much  and  often  to  him;  for  added  to  his  other 


98  Paul  Kelver 

disattractions  he  was  very  deaf,  which  necessitated  his 
putting  his  hand  up  to  his  ear  at  every  other  observation 
made  to  him,  crying  querulously :  "Eh,  what  ?  What  are 
you  talking  about?  Say  it  again," — smiling  upon  him 
and  paying  close  attention  to  his  every  want.  Even  old 
Hasluck,  opposite  to  him,  and  who,  though  pleasant 
enough  in  his  careless  way,  was  far  from  being  a 
slave  to  politeness,  roared  himself  purple,  praising  some 
new  disinfectant  of  which  this  same  Teidelmann  appeared 
to  be  the  proprietor. 

*'My  wife  swears  by  it,"  bellowed  Hasluck,  leaning 
across  the  table. 

"Our  drains!"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Hasluck,  who  was  a 
homely  soul;  "well,  you'd  hardly  know  there  was  any  in 
the  house  since  I've  took  to  using  it." 

"What  are  they  talking  about  ?"  asked  Teidelmann,  ap- 
pealing to  my  mother.     "What's  he  say  his  wife  does?" 

"Your  disinfectant,"  explained  my  mother ;  "Mrs.  Has- 
luck swears  by  it." 

"Who?" 

"Mrs.  Hasluck." 

"Does  she  ?  Delighted  to  hear  it,"  grunted  the  old  gen- 
tleman, evidently  bored. 

"Nothing  like  it  for  a  sick-room,"  persisted  Hasluck; 
"might  almost  call  it  a  scent." 

"Makes  one  quite  anxious  to  be  ill,"  remarked  my  aunt, 
addressing  no  one  in  particular. 

"Reminds  me  of  cocoanuts,"  continued  Hasluck. 

Its  proprietor  appeared  not  to  hear,  but  Hasluck  was 
determined  his  flattery  should  not  be  lost. 

"I  say  it  reminds  me  of  cocoanuts."  He  screamed  it 
this  time. 

"Oh,  does  it?"  was  the  reply. 

"Doesn't  it  you?" 

"Can't  say  it  does,"  answered  Teidelmann.  "As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  don't  know  much  about  it  myself.  Never 
use  it." 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between     99 

Old  Teidelmann  went  on  with  his  dinner,  but  Hasluck 
was  still  full  of  the  subject. 

"Take  my  advice,"  he  shouted,  "and  buy  a  bottle." 

"Buy  a  what?" 

"A  bottle,"  roared  the  other,  with  an  effort  palpably 
beyond  his  strength. 

"What's  he  say  ?  What's  he  talking  about  now  ?"  asked 
Teidelmann,  again  appealing  to  my  mother. 

"He  says  you  ought  to  buy  a  bottle,"  again  explained 
my  mother. 

"What  of?" 

"Of  your  own  disinfectant." 

"Silly  fool !" 

Whether  he  intended  the  remark  to  be  heard  and  thus 
to  close  the  topic  (which  it  did),  or  whether,  as  deaf  peo- 
ple are  apt  to,  merely  misjudged  the  audibility  of  an 
intended  sotto  vocalism,  I  cannot  say.  I  only  know  that 
outside  in  the  passage  I  heard  the  words  distinctly,  and 
therefore  assume  they  reached  round  the  table  also. 

A  lull  in  the  conversation  followed,  but  Hasluck  was 
not  thin-skinned,  and  the  next  thing  I  distinguished  was 
his  cheery  laugh. 

"He's  quite  right,"  was  Hasluck's  comment;  "that's 
what  I  am  undoubtedly.  Because  I  can't  talk  about  any- 
thing but  shop  myself,  I  think  everybody  else  is  the  same 
sort  of  fool." 

But  he  was  doing  himself  an  injustice,  for  on  my 
next  arrival  in  the  passage  he  was  again  shouting  across 
the  table,  and  this  time  Teidelmann  was  evidently  inter- 
ested. 

"Well,  if  you  could  spare  the  time,  I'd  be  more  obliged 
than  I  can  tell  you,"  Hasluck  was  saying.  "I  know  abso- 
lutely nothing  about  pictures  myself,  and  Pearsall  says 
you  are  one  of  the  best  judges  in  Europe." 

"He  ought  to  know,"  chuckled  old  Teidelmann.  "He's 
tried  often  enough  to  palm  off  rubbish  onto  me." 

"That  last  purchase  of  yours  must  have  been  a  good 


loo  Paul  Kelver 

thing  for  young "    Hasluck  mentioned  the  name  of  a 

painter  since  world  famous;  "been  the  making  of  him, 
I  should  say." 

"1  gave  him  two  thousand  for  the  six,"  replied  Teidel- 
mann,  "and  they'll  sell  for  twenty  thousand." 

"But  you'll  never  sell  them?"  exclaimed  my  father. 

"No,"  grunted  old  Teidelmann,  "but  my  widow  will." 

There  came  a  soft,  low  laugh  from  a  corner  of  the  table 
I  could  not  see. 

"It's  Anderson's  great  disappointment,"  followed  a  lan- 
guid, caressing  voice  (the  musical  laugh  translated  into 
prose,  it  seemed),  "that  he  has  never  been  able  to  educate 
me  to  a  proper  appreciation  of  art.  He'll  pay  thousands 
of  pounds  for  a  child  in  rags  or  a  badly  dressed  Madonna. 
Such  a  waste  of  money,  it  appears  to  me." 

"But  you  would  pay  thousands  for  a  diamond  to  hang 
upon  your  neck,"  argued  my  father's  voice. 

"It  would  enhance  the  beauty  of  my  neck,"  replied  the 
musical  voice. 

"An  even  more  absolute  waste  of  money,"  was  my 
father's  answer,  spoken  low.  And  I  heard  again  the 
musical,  soft  laugh. 

"Who  is  she?"  I  asked  Barbara. 

"The  second  Mrs.  Teidelmann,"  whispered  Barbara. 
"She  is  quite  a  swell.  Married  him  for  his  money — I 
don't  like  her  myself,  but  she's  very  beautiful." 

"As  beautiful  as  you?"  I  asked  incredulously.  We 
were  sitting  on  the  stairs,  sharing  a  jelly. 

"Oh,  me !"  answered  Barbara.  "I'm  only  a  child.  No- 
body takes  any  notice  of  me — except  other  kids,  like  you." 
For  some  reason  she  appeared  out  of  conceit  with  her- 
self, which  was  not  her  usual  state  of  mind. 

"But  everybody  thinks  you  beautiful,"  I  maintained. 

"Who?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Dr.  Hal,"  I  answered. 

We  were  with  our  backs  to  the  light,  so  that  I  could  not 
see  her  face. 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between      loi 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked,  aijd  hcf.lvdice  had  iriore 
of  contentment  in  it.  -'^    -.    .     \V"'^''\>'\  <']  \  .\ 

I  could  not  remember  his  exaqt  jVo/rdsi  iut'  atoiit  the 
sense  of  them  I  was  positive. 

''Ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  me,  as  if  you  wanted  to 
know  yourself,"  Barbara  instructed  me,  "and  don't  for- 
get what  he  says  this  time.  I'm  curious."  And  though 
it  seemed  to  me  a  foolish  command — for  what  could  he 
say  of  her  more  than  I  myself  could  tell  her — I  never 
questioned  Barbara's  wishes. 

Yet  if  I  am  right  in  thinking  that  jealousy  of  Mrs. 
Teidelmann  may  have  clouded  for  a  moment  Barbara's 
sunny  nature,  surely  there  was  no  reason  for  this,  seeing 
that  no  one  attracted  greater  attention  throughout  the  din- 
ner than  the  parlour-maid. 

"Where  ever  did  you  get  her  from  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Florret, 
Barbara  having  just  descended  the  kitchen  stairs. 

"A  neat-handed  Phillis,"  commented  Dr.  Florret  with 
approval. 

"I'll  take  good  care  she  never  waits  at  my  table," 
laughed  the  wife  of  our  minister,  the  Rev.  Cottle,  a  broad- 
built,  breezy-voiced  woman,  mother  of  eleven,  eight  of 
them  boys. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said  my  mother,  "she's  only  here 
temporarily." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  my  father,  "we  have  to  thank 
Mrs.  Hasluck  for  her." 

"Don't  leave  me  out  of  it,"  laughed  Hasluck;  "can't 
let  the  old  girl  take  all  the  credit," 

Later  my  father  absent-mindedly  addressed  her  as  "My 
dear,"  at  which  Mrs.  Cottle  shot  a  swift  glance  towards 
my  mother ;  and  before  that  incident  could  have  been  for- 
gotten, Hasluck,  when  no  one  was  looking,  pinched  her 
elbow,  which  would  not  have  mattered  had  not  the  unex- 
pectedness of  it  drawn  from  her  an  involuntary  "augh," 
upon  which,  for  the  reputation  of  the  house,  and  the  din- 
ner being  then  towards  its  end,  my  mother  deemed  it  better 


10^^^  Paul  Kelver 

to  take  the  whctle^c'driipany  into  her  confidence.  Naturally 
the 'story  g'p.i^ec;!;  for  Barbara  still  greater  admiration,  so 
that  when  with'ths  dessert,  discarding  the  apron  but  still 
wearing  the  dainty  cap,  which  showed  wisdom,  she  and 
the  footman  took  their  places  among  the  guests,  she  was 
even  more  than  before  the  centre  of  attention  and  remark. 

'*It  was  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Cottle,  thus  com- 
pleting the  circle  of  compliments,  "and,  as  I  always  tell 
my  girls,  that  is  better  than  being  beautiful." 

"Kind  hearts,"  added  Dr.  Florret,  summing  up  the 
case,  "are  more  than  coronets."  Dr.  Florret  had  ever 
ready  for  the  occasion  the  correct  quotation,  but  from  him, 
somehow,  it  never  irritated ;  rather  it  fell  upon  the  ear  as 
a  necessary  rounding  and  completing  of  the  theme;  like 
the  Amen  in  church. 

Only  to  my  aunt  would  further  observations  have  oc- 
curred. 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  said  my  aunt,  breaking  suddenly 
upon  the  passing  silence,  "I  used  to  look  into  the  glass  and 
say  to  myself:  'Fanny,  you've  got  to  be  amiable,'  and  I 
was  amiable,"  added  my  aunt,  challenging  contradiction 
with  a  look ;  "nobody  can  say  that  I  wasn't,  for  years." 

"It  didn't  pay?"  suggested  Hasluck. 

"It  attracted,"  replied  my  aunt,  "no  attention  what- 
ever." 

Hasluck  had  changed  places  with  my  mother,  and  hav- 
ing after  many  experiments  learned  the  correct  pitch  for 
conversation  with  old  Teidelmann,  talked  with  him  as 
much  aside  as  the  circumstances  of  the  case  would  permit. 
Hasluck  never  wasted  time  on  anything  else  than  bus- 
iness. It  was  in  his  opera  box  on  the  first  night  of  Verdi's 
Aida  (I  am  speaking  of  course  of  days  then  to  come)  that 
he  arranged  the  details  of  his  celebrated  deal  in  guano; 
and  even  his  very  religion,  so  I  have  been  told  and  can 
believe,  he  varied  to  suit  the  enterprise  of  the  moment, 
once  during  the  protracted  preliminaries  of  a  cocoa 
scheme  becoming  converted  to  Quakerism. 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between      103 

But  for  the  most  of  us  interest  lay  in  a  discussion  be- 
tween Washburn  and  Florret  concerning  the  superior  ad- 
vantages attaching  to  residence  in  the  East  End. 

As  a  rule,  incorrect  opinion  found  itself  unable  to  exist 
in  Dr.  Florret's  presence.  As  no  bird,  it  is  said,  can  con- 
tinue its  song  once  looked  at  by  an  owl,  so  all  originality 
grew  silent  under  the  cold  stare  of  his  disapproving  eye. 
But  Dr.  "Fighting  Hal"  was  no  gentle  warbler  of 
thought.  Vehement,  direct,  indifferent,  he  swept  through 
all  polite  argument  as  a  strong  wind  through  a  murmur- 
ing wood,  carrying  his  partisans  with  him  further  than 
they  meant  to  go,  and  quite  unable  to  turn  back ;  leaving 
his  opponents  clinging  desperately — upside  down,  any- 
how— to  their  perches,  angry,  their  feathers  much  ruffled. 

"Life!"  flung  out  Washburn — Dr.  Florret  had  just 
laid  down  unimpeachable  rules  for  the  conduct  of  all  man- 
kind on  all  occasions — "what  do  you  respectable  folk 
know  of  life?  You  are  not  men  and  women,  you  are 
marionettes.  You  don't  move  to  your  natural  emotions 
implanted  by  God ;  you  dance  according  to  the  latest  book 
of  etiquette.  You  live  and  love,  laugh  and  weep  and  sin 
by  rule.  Only  one  moment  do  you  come  face  to  face  with 
life ;  that  is  in  the  moment  when  you  die,  leaving  the  other 
puppets  to  be  dressed  in  black  and  make  believe  to  cry." 

It  was  a  favourite  subject  of  denunciation  with  him, 
the  artificiality  of  us  all. 

"Little  doll,"  he  had  once  called  me,  and  I  had  resented 
the  term. 

"That's  all  you  are,  little  Paul,"  he  had  persisted,  "a 
good  little  hard-working  doll,  that  does  what  it's  made  to 
do,  and  thinks  what  it's  made  to  think.  We  are  all  dolls. 
Your  father  is  a  gallant-hearted,  soft-headed  little  doll; 
your  mother  the  sweetest  and  primmest  of  dolls.  And  I'm 
a  silly,  dissatisfied  doll  that  longs  to  be  a  man,  but  hasn't 
the  pluck.    We  are  only  dolls,  little  Paul." 

"He's  a  trifle — a  trifle  whimsical  on  some  subjects,"  ex- 
plained my  father,  on  my  repeating  this  conversation. 


I04  Paul  Kelver 

"There  are  a  certain  class  of  men,"  explained  my 
mother — "you  will  meet  with  them  more  as  you  grow  up 
— who  talk  for  talking's  sake.  They  don't  know  what 
they  mean.    And  nobody  else  does  either." 

"But  what  would  you  have  ?"  argued  Dr.  Florret,  "that 
every  man  should  do  that  which  is  right  in  his  own  eyes  ?" 

"Far  better  than,  like  the  old  man  in  the  fable,  he  should 
do  what  every  other  fool  thinks  right,"  retorted  Wash- 
burn. "The  other  day  I  called  to  see  whether  a  patient 
of  mine  was  still  alive  or  not.  His  wife  was  washing 
clothes  in  the  front  room.  'How's  your  husband?'  I 
asked.  'I  think  he's  dead,'  replied  the  woman.  Then, 
without  leaving  off  her  work,  'Ji"^/  she  shouted,  'are  you 
there?'  No  answer  came  from  the  inner  room.  'He's  a 
goner,'  she  said,  wringing  out  a  stocking." 

"But  surely,"  said  Dr.  Florret,  "you  don't  admire  a 
woman  for  being  indifferent  to  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band?" 

"I  don't  admire  her  for  that,"  replied  Washburn,  "and 
I  don't  blame  her.  I  didn't  make  the  world  and  I'm  not 
responsible  for  it.  What  I  do  admire  her  for  is  not  pre- 
tending a  grief  she  didn't  feel.  In  Berkeley  Square  she'd 
have  met  me  at  the  door  with  an  agonised  face  and  a 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes." 

"Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not,"  murmured  Dr. 
Florret. 

"Go  on,"  said  Washburn.  "How  does  it  run?  'That 
monster,  custom,  who  all  sense  doth  eat,  of  devil's  habit, 
is  angel  yet  in  this,  that  to  the  use  of  actions  fair  and  good 
he  gives  a  frock  that  aptly  is  put  on.'  So  was  the  lion's 
skin  by  the  ass,  but  it  showed  him  only  the  more  an  ass. 
Here  asses  go  about  as  asses,  but  there  are  lions  also.  I 
had  a  woman  under  my  hands  only  a  little  while  ago.  I 
could  have  cured  her  easily.  Why  she  got  worse  every 
day  instead  of  better  I  could  not  understand.  Then  by 
accident  learned  the  truth:  instead  of  helping  me  she 
was  doing  all  she  could  to  kill  herself.    'I  must.  Doctor/ 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between      105 

she  cried.  'I  must.  I  have  promised.  If  I  get  well  he 
will  only  leave  me,  and  if  I  die  now  he  has  sworn  to  be 
good  to  the  children.'  Here,  I  tell  you,  they  live — think 
their  thoughts,  work  their  will,  kill  those  they  hate,  die 
for  those  they  love;  savages  if  you  like,  but  savage  men 
and  women,  not  bloodless  dolls." 

"I  prefer  the  dolls,"  concluded  Dr.  Florret. 

"I  admit  they  are  pretty,"  answered  Washburn, 

"I  remember,"  said  my  father,  "the  first  masked  ball 
I  ever  went  to  when  I  was  a  student  in  Paris.  It  struck 
me  just  as  you  say,  Hal;  everybody  was  so  exactly  alike. 
I  was  glad  to  get  out  into  the  street  and  see  faces." 

"But  I  thought  they  always  unmasked  at  midnight," 
said  the  second  Mrs.  Teidelmann  in  her  soft,  languid 
tones. 

"I  did  not  wait,"  explained  my  father. 

"That  was  a  pity,"  she  replied.  "I  should  have  been 
interested  to  see  what  they  were  like,  underneath." 

"I  might  have  been  disappointed,"  answered  my  father. 
"I  agree  with  Dr.  Florret  that  sometimes  the  mask  is  an 
improvement." 

Barbara  was  right.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  with 
a  face  that  would  have  been  singularly  winning  if  one 
could  have  avoided  the  hard  cold  eyes  ever  restless  behind 
the  half-closed  lids. 

Always  she  was  very  kind  to  me.  Moreover,  since  the 
disappearance  of  Cissy  she  was  the  first  to  bestow  again 
upon  me  a  good  opinion  of  my  small  self.  My  mother 
praised  me  when  I  was  good,  which  to  her  was  the  one 
thing  needful;  but  few  of  us,  I  fear,  child  or  grown-up, 
take  much  pride  in  our  solid  virtues,  finding  them  gen- 
erally hindrances  to  our  desires :  like  the  oyster's  pearl, 
of  more  comfort  to  the  world  than  to  ourselves.  If  oth- 
ers there  were  who  admired  me,  very  guardedly  must  they 
have  kept  the  secret  I  would  so  gladly  have  shared  with 
them.  But  this  new  friend  of  ours — or  had  I  not  better 
at  once  say  enemy — made  me  feel  when  in  her  presence 


io6  Paul  Kelver 

a  person  of  Importance.  How  it  was  accomplished  I  can- 
not explain.  No  word  of  flattery  nor  even  of  mere  ap- 
proval ever  passed  her  lips.  Her  charm  to  me  was  not 
that  she  admired  me,  but  that  she  led  me  by  some  mys- 
terious process  to  admire  myself. 

And  yet  in  spite  of  this  and  many  lesser  kindnesses  she 
showed  to  me,  I  never  really  liked  her ;  but  rather  feared 
her,  dreading  always  the  sudden  raising  of  those  ever 
half-closed  eyelids. 

She  sat  next  to  my  father  at  the  corner  of  the  table, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  long  white  hands,  her  sweet  lips" 
parted,  and  as  often  as  his  eyes  were  turned  away  from 
her,  her  soft  low  voice  would  draw  them  back  again. 
Once  she  laid  her  hand  on  his,  laughing  the  while  at  some 
light  jest  of  his,  and  I  saw  that  he  flushed;  and  following 
his  quick  glance,  saw  that  my  mother's  eyes  were  watch- 
ing also. 

I  have  spoken  of  my  father  only  as  he  then  appeared  to 
me,  a  child — an  older  chum  with  many  lines  about  his  mo- 
bile mouth,  the  tumbled  hair  edged  round  with  grey ;  but 
looking  back  with  older  eyes,  I  see  him  a  slightly  stooping, 
yet  still  tall  and  graceful  man,  with  the  face  of  a  poet — the 
face  I  mean  a  poet  ought  to  possess  but  rarely  does, 
nature  apparently  abhorring  the  obvious — with  the  shy 
eyes  of  a  boy,  and  a  voice  tender  as  a  woman's.  Never  the 
dingiest  little  drab  that  entered  the  kitchen  but  adored 
him,  speaking  always  of  ''the  master"  in  tones  of  fond 
proprietorship,  for  to'the  most  slatternly  his  "orders"  had 
ever  the  air  of  requests  for  favours.  Women,  I  so  often 
read,  can  care  for  only  masterful  men.  But  may  there 
not  be  variety  in  women  as  in  other  species  ?  Or  per- 
haps— if  the  suggestion  be  not  over-daring — the  many 
writers,  deeming  themselves  authorities  upon  this  subject 
of  woman,  may  in  this  one  particular  have  erred  ?  I  only 
know  my  father  spoke  to  few  women  whose  eyes  did  not 
brighten.    Yet  hardly  should  I  call  him  a  masterful  man. 


Of  the  Shadow  that  Came  Between      1 07 

"I  think  it's  all  right,"  whispered  Hasluck  to  my  father 
in  the  passage — they  were  the  last  to  go.  ''What  does  she 
think  of  it,  eh?" 

''I  think  she'll  be  with  us,"  answered  my  father. 

"Nothing  like  food  for  bringing  people  together,"  said 
Hasluck.     **Good-night." 

The  door  closed,  but  Something  had  crept  into  the 
house.  It  stood  between  my  father  and  mother.  It  fol- 
lowed them  silently  up  the  narrow  creaking  stairs. 


17808' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OF  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

Better  is  little,  than  treasure  and  trouble  therewith. 
Better  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox 
and  hatred  therewith.  None  but  a  great  man  would  have 
dared  to  utter  such  a  glaring  commonplace  as  that.  Not 
only  on  Sundays  now,  but  all  the  week,  came  the  hot 
joint  to  table,  and  on  every  day  there  was  pudding, 
till  a  body  grew  indifferent  to  pudding ;  thus  a  joy-giving 
luxury  of  life  being  lost  and  but  another  item  added  to  the 
long  list  of  uninteresting  needs.  Now  we  could  eat  and 
drink  without  stint.  No  need  now  to  organise  for  the 
morrow's  hash.  No  need  now  to  cut  one's  bread  instead 
of  breaking  it,  thinking  of  Saturday's  bread  pudding.  But 
there  the  saying  fails,  for  never  now  were  we  merry.  A 
silent  unseen  guest  sat  with  us  at  the  board,  so  that  no 
longer  we  laughed  and  teased  as  over  the  half  pound  of 
sausages  or  the  two  sweet-scented  herrings;  but  talked 
constrainedly  of  empty  things  that  lay  outside  us. 

Easy  enough  would  it  have  been  for  us  to  move  to  Guil- 
ford Street.  Occasionally  in  the  spiritless  tones  in  which 
they  now  spoke  on  all  subjects  save  the  one,  my  mother 
and  father  would  discuss  the  project;  but  always  into  the 
conversation  would  fall,  sooner  or  later,  some  loosened 
thought  to  stir  it  to  anger,  and  so  the  aching  months  went 
by,  and  the  cloud  grew. 

Then  one  day  the  news  came  that  old  Teidelmann  had 
died  suddenly  in  his  counting  house. 

"You  are  going  to  her  ?"  said  my  mother. 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       109 

"I  have  been  sent  for,"  said  my  father;  "I  must — it  may- 
mean  business." 

My  mother  laughed  bitterly ;  why,  at  the  time,  I  could 
not  understand;  and  my  father  flung  out  of  the  house. 
During  the  many  hours  that  he  was  away  my  mother  re- 
mained locked  in  her  room,  and,  stealing  sometimes  to  the 
door,  I  was  sure  I  heard  her  crying;  and  that  she  should 
grieve  so  at  old  Teidelmann's  death  puzzled  me. 

She  came  oftener  to  our  house  after  that.  Her  mourn- 
ing added,  I  think,  to  her  beauty,  softening — or  seeming 
to  soften — the  hardness  of  her  eyes.  Always  she  was 
very  sweet  to  my  mother,  who  by  contrast  beside  her  ap- 
peared witless  and  ungracious;  and  to  me,  whatever  her 
motive,  she  was  kindness  itself ;  hardly  ever  arriving  with- 
out some  trifling  gift  or  plan  for  affording  me  some  child- 
ish treat.  By  instinct  she  understood  exactly  what  I  de- 
sired and  liked,  the  books  that  would  appeal  to  me  as  those 
my  mother  gave  me  never  did,  the  pleasures  that  did  please 
me  as  opposed  to  the  pleasures  that  should  have  pleased 
me.  Often  my  mother,  talking  to  me,  would  chill  me  with 
the  vista  of  the  life  that  lay  before  me :  a  narrow,  viewless 
way  between  twin  endless  walls  of  ''Must"  and  "Must 
not."  This  soft-voiced  lady  set  me  dreaming  of  life  as  of 
sunny  fields  through  which  one  wandered  laughing,  along 
the  winding  path  of  Will ;  so  that,  although  as  I  have  said, 
there  lurked  at  the  bottom  of  my  thoughts  a  fear  of  her ; 
yet  something  within  me  I  seemed  unable  to  control  went 
out  to  her,  drawn  by  her  subtle  sympathy  and  understand- 
ing of  it. 

''Has  he  ever  seen  a  pantomime?"  she  asked  of  my 
father  one  morning,  looking  at  me  the  while  with  a  whim- 
sical screwing  of  her  mouth. 

My  heart  leaped  within  me.  My  father  raised  his  eye- 
brows : 

"What  would  your  mother  say,  do  you  think?"  he 
asked.     My  heart  sank. 

"She  thinks,"  I  replied,  "that  theatres  are  very  wicked 


1 1  o  Paul  Kelver 

places/*  It  was  the  first  time  that  any  doubt  as  to  the 
correctness  of  my  mother's  judgments  had  ever  crossed 
my  mind. 

Mrs.  Teidelmann's  smile  strengthened  my  doubt. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  *'I  am  afraid  I  must  be  very 
wicked.  I  have  always  regarded  a  pantomime  as  quite  a 
moral  entertainment.  All  the  bad  people  go  down  so  very 
straight  to — well,  to  the  fit  and  proper  place  for  them. 
And  we  could  promise  to  leave  before  the  Clown  stole  the 
sausages,  couldn't  we,  Paul?" 

My  mother  was  called  and  came ;  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  how  insignificant  she  looked  with  her  pale  face 
and  plain  dark  frock,  standing  stiffly  beside  this  shining 
lady  in  her  rustling  clothes. 

"You  will  let  him  come,  Mrs.  Kelver,"  she  pleaded  in 
her  soft  caressing  tones;  "it's  Dick  Whittington,  you 
know — such  an  excellent  moral." 

My  mother  had  stood  silent,  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands,  a  childish  trick  she  had  when  troubled ;  and  her 
lips  were  trembling.  Important  as  the  matter  loomed  be- 
fore my  own  eyes,  I  wondered  at  her  agitation. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  my  mother,  "it  is  very  kind  of 
you.     But  I  would  rather  he  did  not  go." 

"Just  this  once,"  persisted  Mrs.  Teidelmann.  "It  is 
hoHday  time." 

A  ray  of  sunlight  fell  into  the  room,  lighting  upon  her 
coaxing  face,  making  where  my  mother  stood  seem 
shadow. 

"I  would  rather  he  did  not  go,"  repeated  my  mother, 
and  her  voice  sounded  harsh  and  grating.  "When  he  is 
older  others  must  judge  for  him,  but  for  the  present  he 
must  be  guided  by  me — alone." 

"I  really  don't  think  there  could  be  any  harm,  Maggie," 
urged  my  father.  "Things  have  changed  since  we  were 
young." 

"That  may  be,"  answered  my  mother,  still  in  the  same 
harsh  voice ;  "it  is  long  ago  since  then." 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       1 1 1 

"I  didn't  intend  it  that  way,"  said  my  father  with  a 
short  laugh. 

*'I  merely  meant  that  I  may  be  wrong,"  answered  my 
mother.  "I  seem  so  old  among  you  all — so  out  of  place. 
I  have  tried  to  change,  but  I  cannot." 

*'We  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Teidelmann, 
sweetly.  "I  merely  thought  it  would  give  him  pleasure; 
and  he  has  worked  so  hard  this  last  term,  his  father  tells 
me." 

She  laid  her  hand  caressingly  on  my  shoulder,  drawing 
me  a  little  closer  to  her ;  and  it  remained  there. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  my  mother,  ''I  would 
do  anything  to  give  him  pleasure,  anything — I  could.  He 
knows  that.     He  understands." 

My  mother's  hand,  I  knew,  was  seeking  mine,  but  I  was 
angry  and  would  not  see ;  and  without  another  word  she 
left  the  room. 

My  mother  did  not  allude  again  to  the  subject;  but  the 
very  next  afternoon  she  took  me  herself  to  a  hall  in  the 
neighbourhood,  where  we  saw  a  magic-lantern,  followed 
by  a  conjurer.  She  had  dressed  herself  in  a  prettier  frock 
than  she  had  worn  for  many  a  long  day,  and  was  brighter 
and  gayer  in  herself  than  had  lately  been  her  wont,  laugh- 
ing and  talking  merrily.  But  I,  nursing  my  wrongs,  re- 
mained moody  and  sulky.  At  any  other  time  such  rare 
amusement  would  have  overjoyed  me ;  but  the  wonders  of 
the  great  theatre  that  from  other  boys  I  had  heard  so 
much  of,  that  from  gaudy-coloured  posters  I  had  built  up 
for  myself,  were  floating  vague  and  undefined  before  me  in 
the  air ;  and  neither  the  open-mouthed  sleeper,  swallowing 
his  endless  chain  of  rats,  nor  even  the  live  rabbit  found  in 
the  stout  old  gentleman's  hat — the  last  sort  of  person  in 
whose  hat  one  would  have  expected  to  find  such  a  thing — 
could  draw  away  my  mind  from  the  joy  I  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  only  to  lose. 

So  we  walked  home  through  the  muddy,  darkening 
streets,  speaking  but  little;  and  that  night,  waking — or 


1 1 2  Paul  Kelver 

rather  half  waking,  as  children  do — I  thought  I  saw  a 
figure  in  white  crouching  at  the  foot  of  my  bed.  I  must 
have  gone  to  sleep  again;  and  later,  though  I  cannot  say 
whether  the  intervening  time  was  short  or  long,  I  opened 
my  eyes  to  see  it  still  there ;  and  frightened,  I  cried  out ; 
and  my  mother  rose  from  her  knees. 

She  laughed,  a  curious  broken  laugh,  in  answer  to  my 
questions.  "It  was  a  silly  dream  I  had,"  she  explained  ; 
''I  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  conjurer  we  saw.  I 
dreamt  that  a  wicked  Magician  had  spirited  you  away 
from  me.  I  could  not  find  you  and  was  all  alone  in  the 
world." 

She  put  her  arms  around  me,  so  tight  as  almost  to  hurt 
me.  And  thus  we  remained  until  again  I  must  have  fallen 
asleep. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  these  same  holidays  that  my 
mother  and  I  called  upon  Mrs.  Teidelmann  in  her  great 
stone-built  house  at  Clapton.  She  had  sent  a  note  round 
that  morning,  saying  she  was  suffering  from  terrible 
headaches  that  quite  took  her  senses  away,  so  that  she  was 
unable  to  come  out.  She  would  be  leaving  England  in  a 
few  days  to  travel.  Would  my  mother  come  and  see  her, 
she  would  like  to  say  good-bye  to  her  before  she  went. 
My  mother  handed  the  letter  across  the  table  to  my  father. 

"Of  course  you  will  go,"  said  my  father.  "Poor  girl, 
I  wonder  what  the  cause  can  be.  She  used  to  be  so  free 
from  everything  of  the  kind." 

"Do  you  think  it  well  for  me  to  go?"  said  my  mother. 
"What  can  she  have  to  say  to  me?" 

"Oh,  just  to  say  good-bye,"  answered  my  father.  "It 
would  look  so  pointed  not  to  go." 

It  was  a  dull,  sombre  house  without,  but  one  entered 
through  its  commonplace  door  as  through  the  weed-grown 
rock  into  Aladdin's  cave.  Old  Teidelmann  had  been  a 
great  collector  all  his  life,  and  his  treasures,  now  scattered 
through  a  dozen  galleries,  were  then  heaped  there  in  curi- 
ous confusion.     Pictures  filled  every  inch  of  wall,  stood 


Of  the   Passing  of  the  Shadow       1 1 3 

propped  against  the  wonderful  old  furniture,  were  even 
stretched  unframed  across  the  ceilings.  Statues  gleamed 
from  every  corner  (a  few  of  the  statues  were,  I  remember, 
the  only  things  out  of  the  entire  collection  that  Mrs. 
Teidelmann  kept  for  herself),  carvings,  embroideries, 
priceless  china,  miniatures  framed  in  gems,  illuminated 
missals  and  gorgeously  bound  books  crowded  the  room. 
The  ugly  little  thick-lipped  man  had  surrounded  himself 
with  the  beauty  of  every  age,  brought  from  every  land. 
He  himself  must  have  been  the  only  thing  cheap  and  un- 
interesting to  be  found  within  his  own  walls ;  and  now  he 
lay  shrivelled  up  in  his  coffin,  under  a  monument  by  means 
of  which  an  unknown  cemetery  became  quite  famous. 

Instructions  had  been  given  that  my  mother  was  to  be 
shown  up  into  Mrs.  Teidelmann's  boudoir.  She  was  ly- 
ing on  a  sofa  near  the  fire  when  we  entered,  asleep,  dressed 
in  a  loose  lace  robe  that  fell  away,  showing  her  thin  but 
snow-white  arms,  her  rich  dark  hair  falling  loose  about 
her.  In  sleep  she  looked  less  beautiful :  harder  and  with 
a  suggestion  of  coarseness  about  the  face,  of  which  at 
other  times  it  showed  no  trace.  My  mother  said  she 
would  wait,  perhaps  Mrs.  Teidelmann  would  awake;  and 
the  servant,  closing  the  door  softly,  left  us  alone  with  her. 

An  old  French  clock  standing  on  the  mantelpiece,  a 
heart  supported  by  Cupids,  ticked  with  a  muffled,  soothing 
sound.  My  mother,  choosing  a  chair  by  the  window,  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sleeping  woman's  face,  and  it 
seemed  to  me — though  this  may  have  been  but  my  fancy 
born  of  after-thought — that  a  faint  smile  relaxed  for  a 
moment  the  sleeping  woman's  pained,  pressed  lips. 
Neither  I  nor  my  mother  spoke,  the  only  sound  in  the 
room  being  the  hushed  ticking  of  the  great  gilt  clock. 
Until  the  other  woman  after  a  few  slight  movements  of 
unrest  began  to  talk  in  her  sleep. 

Only  confused  murmurs  escaped  her  at  first,  and  then  I 
heard  her  whisper  my  father's  name.  Very  low — hardly 
more  than  breathed — were  the  words,  but  upon  the  silence 


1 14  Paul  Kelver 

each  syllable  struck  clear  and  distinct :  "Ah  no,  we  must 
not.     Luke,  my  darling." 

My  mother  rose  swiftly  from  her  chair,  but  she  spoke 
in  quite  matter-of-fact  tones. 

"Go,  Paul,"  she  said,  "wait  for  me  downstairs;"  and 
noiselessly  opening  the  door,  she  pushed  me  gently  out, 
and  closed  it  again  behind  me. 

It  was  half  an  hour  or  more  before  she  came  down,  and 
at  once  we  left  the  house,  letting  ourselves  out.  All  the 
way  home  my  mother  never  once  spoke,  but  walked  as  one 
in  a  dream  with  eyes  that  saw  not.  With  her  hand  upon 
the  lock  of  our  gate  she  came  back  to  life. 

"You  must  say  nothing,  Paul,  do  you  understand  ?"  she 
said.  "When  people  are  delirious  they  use  strange  words 
that  have  no  meaning.  Do  you  understand,  Paul ;  you 
must  never  breathe  a  word — never." 

I  promised,  and  we  entered  the  house;  and  from  that 
day  my  mother's  whole  manner  changed.  Not  another 
angry  word  ever  again  escaped  her  lips,  never  an  angry 
flash  lighted  up  again  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Teidelmann  re- 
mained away  three  months.  My  father,  of  course,  wrote 
to  her  often,  for  he  was  managing  all  her  affairs.  But  my 
mother  wrote  to  her  also — though  this  my  father,  I  do  not 
think,  knew — long  letters  that  she  would  go  away  by  her- 
self to  pen,  writing  them  always  in  the  twilight,  close  to 
the  window. 

"Why  do  you  choose  this  time,  just  when  it's  getting 
dark,  to  write  your  letters,"  my  father  would  expostulate, 
when  by  chance  he  happened  to  look  into  the  room.  "Let 
me  ring  for  the  lamp,  you  will  strain  your  eyes."  But  my 
mother  would  always  excuse  herself,  saying  she  had  only 
a  few  lines  to  finish. 

"I  can  think  better  in  this  light,"  she  would  explain. 

And  when  Mrs.  Teidelmann  returned,  it  was  my  mother 
who  was  the  first  to  call  upon  her ;  before  even  my  father 
knew  that  she  was  back.  And  from  thence  onward  one 
might  have  thought  them  the  closest  of  friends,  my  mother 


Of  the   Passing  of  the  Shadow       i  1 5 

visiting  her  often,  speaking  of  her  to  all  in  terms  of  praise 
and  liking. 

In  this  way  peace  returned  unto  the  house,  and  my 
father  was  tender  again  in  all  his  words  and  actions  to- 
wards my  mother,  and  my  mother  thoughtful  as  before  of 
all  his  wants  and  whims,  her  voice  soft  and  low,  the  sweet 
smile  ever  lurking  around  her  lips  as  in  the  old  days  before 
this  evil  thing  had  come  to  dwell  among  us ;  and  I  might 
have  forgotten  it  had  ever  cast  its  blight  upon  our  life  but 
that  every  day  my  mother  grew  feebler,  the  little  ways 
that  had  seemed  a  part  of  her  gone  from  her. 

The  summer  came  and  went — that  time  in  towns  of 
panting  days  and  stifling  nights,  when  through  the  open 
window  crawls  to  one's  face  the  hot  foul  air,  heavy  with 
reeking  odours  drawn  from  a  thousand  streets ;  when  ly- 
ing awake  one  seems  to  hear  the  fitful  breathing  of  the 
myriad  mass  around,  as  of  some  over-laboured  beast  too 
tired  to  even  rest ;  and  my  mother  moved  about  the  house 
ever  more  listlessly. 

'There's  nothing  really  the  matter  with  her,"  said  Dr. 
Hal,  "only  weakness.  It  is  the  place.  Cannot  you  get 
her  away  from  it?" 

'*I  cannot  leave  myself,"  said  my  father,  "just  yet;  but 
there  is  no  reason  why  you  and  the  boy  should  not  take  a 
holiday.  This  year  I  can  afford  it,  and  later  I  might  pos- 
sibly join  you." 

My  mother  consented,  as  she  did  to  all  things  now,  and 
so  it  came  about  that  again  of  afternoons  we  climbed — 
though  more  slowly  and  with  many  pauses — the  steep 
path  to  the  ruined  tower  old  Jacob  in  his  happy  foolishness 
had  built  upon  the  headland,  rested  once  again  upon  its 
topmost  platform,  sheltered  from  the  wind  that  ever  blew 
about  its  crumbling  walls,  saw  once  more  the  distant 
mountains,  faint  like  spectres,  and  the  silent  ships  that 
came  and  vanished,  and  about  our  feet  the  pleasant  farm 
lands,  and  the  grave,  sweet  river. 

We  had  taken  lodgings  in  the  village :  smaller  now  it 


ii6  Paul  Kelver 

seemed  than  previously;  but  wonderful  its  sunny  calm, 
after  the  turmoil  of  the  fierce  dark  streets.  Mrs.  Fursey 
was  there  still,  but  quite  another  than  the  Mrs.  Fursey  of 
my  remembrance,  a  still  angular  but  cheery  dame,  bent  no 
longer  on  suppressing  me,  but  rather  on  drawing  me  out 
before  admiring  neighbours,  as  one  saying :  *'The  material 
was  unpromising,  as  you  know.  There  were  times  when  I 
almost  despaired.  But  with  patience,  and — may  I  say,  a 
natural  gift  that  way — ^you  see  what  can  be  accom- 
plished !"  And  Anna,  now  a  buxom  wife  and  mother, 
with  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  fall  upon  and  kiss  me  at 
most  unexpected  moments,  necessitating  a  never  sleeping 
watchfulness  on  my  part,  and  a  choosing  of  positions  af- 
fording means  of  ready  retreat.  And  old  Chumbley,  still 
cobbling  shoes  in  his  tiny  cave.  On  the  bench  before  him  in 
a  row  they  sat  and  watched  him  while  he  tapped  and  tap- 
ped and  hammered :  pert  little  shoes  piping  "Be  quick,  be 
quick,  we  want  to  be  toddling.  You  seem  to  have  no  idea, 
my  good  man,  how  much  toddling  there  is  to  be  done." 
Dapper  boots,  sighing:  "Oh,  please  make  haste,  we  are 
waiting  to  dance  and  to  strut.  Jack  walks  in  the  lane,  Jill 
waits  by  the  gate.  Oh,  deary,  how  slowly  he  taps." 
Stout  sober  boots,  saying :  "As  soon  as  you  can,  old  friend. 
Remember  we've  work  to  do."  Flat-footed  old  boots,  rusty 
and  limp,  mumbling:  "We  haven't  much  time,  Mr. 
Chumbley.  Just  a  patch,  that  is  all,  we  haven't  much  fur- 
ther to  go."  And  old  Joe,  still  peddling  his  pack,  with  the 
help  of  the  same  old  jokes.  And  Tom  Pinfold,  still  puz- 
zled and  scratching  his  head,  the  rejected  fish  still  hanging 
by  its  tail  from  his  expostulating  hand ;  one  might  almost 
have  imagined  it  the  same  fish.  Grown-up  folks  had 
changed  but  little.  Only  the  foolish  children  had  been 
playing  tricks ;  parties  I  had  left  mere  sucking  babes  now 
swaggering  in  pinafore  or  knickerbocker ;  children  I  had 
known  now  mincing  it  as  men  and  women;  such  affecta- 
tion annoyed  me. 

One  afternoon — it  was  towards  the  close  of  the  last 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       117 

week  of  our  stay — my  mother  and  I  had  climbed,  as  was 
so  often  our  wont,  to  the  upper  platform  of  old  Jacob's 
tower.  My  mother  leant  upon  the  parapet,  her  eyes  fixed 
dreamingly  upon  the  distant  mountains,  and  a  smile  crept 
to  her  lips. 

*'What  are  you  thinking  of?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  only  of  things  that  happened  over  there" — she 
nodded  her  head  towards  the  distant  hills  as  to  some  old 
crony  with  whom  she  shares  secrets — **when  I  was  a  girl." 

"You  lived  there,  long  ago,  didn't  you,  when  you  were 
young?"  I  asked.  Boys  do  not  always  stop  to  consider 
whether  their  questions  might  or  might  not  be  better  ex- 
pressed. 

"You're  very  rude,"  said  my  mother — it  was  long  since 
a  tone  of  her  old  self  had  rung  from  her  in  answer  to  any 
touch ;  "it  was  a  very  little  while  ago." 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and  listened.  Perhaps 
some  twenty  seconds  she  remained  so  with  her  lips  parted, 
and  then  from  the  woods  came  a  faint,  long-drawn 
"Coo-ee."  We  ran  to  the  side  of  the  tower  commanding 
the  pathway  from  the  village,  and  waited  until  from 
among  the  dark  pines  my  father  emerged  into  the  sun- 
light. 

Seeing  us,  he  shouted  again  and  waved  his  stick,  and 
from  the  light  of  his  eyes  and  his  gallant  bearing,  and  the 
spring  of  his  step  across  the  heathery  turf,  we  knew  in- 
stinctively that  trouble  had  come  upon  him.  He  always 
rose  to  meet  it  with  that  look  and  air.  It  was  the  old 
Norse  blood  in  his  veins,  I  suppose.  So,  one  imagines, 
must  those  godless  old  Pirates  have  sprung  to  their  feet 
when  the  North  wind,  loosed  as  a  hawk  from  the  leash, 
struck  at  the  beaked  prow. 

We  heard  his  quick  step  on  the  rickety  stair,  and  the 
next  moment  he  was  between  us,  breathing  a  little  hard, 
but  laughing. 

He  stood  for  awhile  beside  my  mother  without  speak- 
ing, both  of  them  gazing  at  the  distant  hills  among  which. 


Ii8  Paul  Kelver 

as  my  mother  had  explained,  things  had  happened  long 
ago.  And  maybe,  ''over  there,"  their  memories  met  and 
looked  upon  each  other  with  kind  eyes. 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  my  father,  "we  climbed  up 
here — it  was  the  first  walk  we  took  together  after  coming 
here.  We  discussed  our  plans  for  the  future,  how  we 
would  retrieve  our  fortunes." 

"And  the  future,"  answered  my  mother,  "has  a  way 
of  making  plans  for  us  instead." 

"It  would  seem  so,"  replied  my  father,  with  a  laugh.  "I 
am  an  unlucky  beggar,  Maggie.  I  dropped  all  your 
money  as  well  as  my  own  down  that  wretched  mine." 

"It  was  the  will — it  was  Fate,  or  whatever  you  call  it," 
said  my  mother.     "You  could  not  help  that,  Luke." 

"If  only  that  damned  pump  hadn't  jambed,"  said  my 
father. 

"Do  you  remember  that  Mrs.  Tharand?"  asked  my 
mother. 

"Yes,  what  of  her?" 

"A  worldly  woman,  I  always  thought  her.  She  called 
on  me  the  morning  we  were  leaving;  I  don't  think  you 
saw  her.  'I've  been  through  more  worries  than  you  would 
think,  to  look  at  me,'  she  said  to  me,  laughing.  I've  al- 
ways remembered  her  words :  'and  of  all  the  troubles  that 
come  to  us  in  this  world,  believe  me,  Mrs.  Kelver,  money 
troubles  are  the  easiest  to  bear.'  " 

"I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  said  my  father. 

"She  rather  irritated  me  at  the  time,"  continued  my. 
mother.     "I  thought  it  one  of  those  commonplaces  with 
which  we  console  ourselves  for  other  people's  misfortunes. 
But  now  I  know  she  spoke  the  truth." 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  awhile.  Then 
said  my  father  in  a  cheery  tone : 

"I've  broken  with  old  Hasluck." 

"I  thought  you  would  be  compelled  to  sooner  or  later," 
answered  my  mother. 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       1 1 9 

"Hasluck,"  exclaimed  my  father,  with  sudden  vehe- 
mence, "is  Httle  better  than  a  thief ;  I  told  him  so." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  my  mother. 

"Laughed,  and  said  that  was  better  than  some  people." 
My  father  laughed  himself. 

I  wish  to  do  the  memory  of  Noel  Hasluck  no  injustice. 
Ever  was  he  a  kind  friend  to  me;  not  only  then,  but  in 
later  years,  when,  having  come  to  learn  that  kindness  is 
rarer  in  the  world  than  I  had  dreamt,  I  was  glad  of  it. 
Added  to  which,  if  only  for  Barbara's  sake,  I  would  pre- 
fer to  write  of  him  throughout  in  terms  of  praise.  Yet 
even  were  his  good-tempered,  thick-skinned  ghost  (and 
unless  it  were  good-tempered  and  thick-skinned  it  would 
be  no  true  ghost  of  old  Noel  Hasluck)  to  be  reading  over 
my  shoulder  the  words  as  I  write  them  down,  I  think  it 
would  agree  with  me — I  do  not  think  it  would  be  offended 
with  me  (for  ever  in  his  life  he  was  an  admirer  and  a  lover 
of  the  Truth,  being  one  of  those  good  fighters  capable  of 
respecting  even  his  foe,  his  enemy,  against  whom  from  ten 
to  four,  occasionally  a  little  later,  he  fought  right  vali- 
antly) for  saying  that  of  all  the  men  who  go  down  into 
the  City  each  day  in  a  cab  or  'bus  or  train,  he  was  perhaps 
one  of  the  most  unprincipled :  and  whether  that  be  saying 
much  or  little  I  leave  to  those  with  more  knowledge  to 
decide. 

To  do  others,  as  it  was  his  conviction,  right  or  wrong, 
that  they  would  do  him  if  ever  he  gave  them  half  a  chance, 
was  his  notion  of  "business ;"  and  in  most  of  his  transac- 
tions he  was  successful.  "I  play  a  game,"  he  would  ar- 
gue, "where  cheating  is  the  rule.  Nine  out  of  every  ten 
men  round  the  table  are  sharpers  like  myself,  and  the  tenth 
man  is  a  fool  who  has  no  business  to  be  there.  We  prey 
upon  each  other,  and  the  cutest  of  us  is  the  winner." 

"But  the  innocent  people,  lured  by  your  fine  promises," 
I  ventured  once  to  suggest  to  him,  "the  widows  and  the 
orphans  ?" 

"My  dear  lad,"  be  said,  with  a  laugh,  laying  his  fat  hand 


I20  Paul  Kelver 

upon  my  shoulder,  "I  remember  one  of  your  widows  writ- 
ing me  a  pathetic  letter  about  some  shares  she  had  taken  in 
a  Silver  Company  of  mine.  Lord  knows  where  the  mine 
is  now — somewhere  in  Spain,  I  think.  It  looked  as 
though  all  her  savings  were  gone.  She  had  an  only  son, 
and  it  was  nearly  all  they  possessed  in  the  world,  etc.,  etc. 
— you  know  the  sort  of  thing.  Well,  I  did  what  I've  often 
been  numskull  enough  to  do  in  similar  cases,  wrote  and 
offered  to  buy  her  out  at  par.  A  week  later  she  answered, 
thanking  me,  but  saying  it  did  not  matter.  There  had  oc- 
curred a  momentary  rise,  and  she  had  sold  out  at  a  profit — 
to  her  own  brother-in-law,  as  I  discovered,  happening  to 
come  across  the  transfers.  You  can  find  widows  and  or- 
phans round  the  Monte  Carlo  card  tables,  if  you  like  to 
look  for  them ;  they  are  no  more  deserving  of  considera- 
tion than  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  Besides,  if  it  comes  to 
that,  I'm  an  orphan  myself ;"  and  he  laughed  again,  one  of 
his  deep,  hearty,  honest  laughs.  No  one  ever  possessed  a 
laugh  more  suggestive  in  its  every  cadence  of  simple, 
transparent  honesty.  He  used  to  say  himself  it  was  worth 
thousands  to  him. 

Better  from  the  Moralists'  point  of  view  had  such  a 
man  been  an  out-and-out  rogue.  Then  might  one  have 
pointed,  crying :  "Behold  :  Dishonesty,  as  you  will  observe 
in  the  person  of  our  awful  example,  to  be  hated,  needs  but 
to  be  seen."  But  the  duty  of  the  Chronicler  is  to  bear 
witness  to  what  he  knows,  leaving  Truth  with  the  whole 
case  before  her  to  sum  up  and  direct  the  verdict.  In  the 
City,  old  Hasluck  had  a  bad  reputation  and  deserved  it ;  in 
Stoke- Newington — then  a  green  suburb,  containing  many 
fine  old  houses,  standing  in  great  wooded  gardens — he 
was  loved  and  respected.  In  his  business,  he  was  a  man 
void  of  all  moral  sense,  without  bowels  of  compassion  for 
any  living  thing ;  in  retirement,  a  man  with  a  strong  sense 
of  duty  and  a  fine  regard  for  the  rights  and  feelings  of 
others,  never  happier  than  when  planning  to  help  or  give 
pleasure.     In  his  office,  he  would  have  robbed  his  own 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       121 

mother.  At  home,  he  would  have  spent  his  last  penny  to 
add  to  her  happiness  or  comfort.  I  make  no  attempt  to 
explain.  I  only  know  that  such  men  do  exist,  and  that 
Hasluck  was  one  of  them.  One  avoids  difficulties  by  dis- 
missing them  as  a  product  of  our  curiously  complex  civili- 
sation— a  convenient  phrase;  let  us  hope  the  recording 
angel  may  be  equally  impressed  by  it. 

Casting  about  for  some  reason  of  excuse  to  myself  for 
my  liking  of  him,  I  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  regarding 
him  as  a  modern  Robin  Hood,  whom  we  are  taught  to  ad- 
mire without  shame,  a  Robin  Hood  up  to  date,  adapted  to 
the  changed  conditions  of  modern  environment;  making 
his  living  relieving  the  rich;  taking  pleasure  relieving 
the  poor. 

"What  will  you  do?"  asked  my  mother. 

'*I  shall  have  to  give  up  the  office,"  answered  my  father. 
"Without  him  there's  not  enough  to  keep  it  going.  He 
was  quite  good-tempered  about  the  matter — offered  to  di- 
vide the  work,  letting  me  retain  the  straightforward  por- 
tion for  whatever  that  might  be  worth.  But  I  declined. 
Now  I  know,  I  feel  I  would  rather  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  him." 

"I  think  you  were  quite  right,"  agreed  my  mother. 

"What  I  blame  myself  for,"  said  my  father,  "is  that  I 
didn't  see  through  him  before.  Of  course  he  has  been 
making  a  mere  tool  of  me  from  the  beginning.  I  ought 
to  have  seen  through  him.     Why  didn't  I  ?" 

They  discussed  the  future,  or,  rather,  my  father  dis- 
cussed, my  mother  listening  in  silence,  stealing  a  puzzled 
look  at  him  from  time  to  time,  as  though  there  were  some- 
thing she  could  not  understand. 

He  would  take  a  situation  in  the  City.  One  had  been 
offered  him.  It  might  sound  poor,  but  it  would  be  a 
steady  income  on  which  we  must  contrive  to  live.  The 
little  money  he  had  saved  must  be  kept  for  investments — 
nothing  speculative — judicious  "dealings,"  by  means  of 
which  a  cool,  clear-headed  man  could  soon  accumulate 


122  Paul  Kelver 

capital.  Here  the  training  acquired  by  working  for  old 
Hasluck  would  serve  him  well.  One  man  my  father  knew 
— quite  a  dull,  commonplace  man — starting  a  few  years 
ago  with  only  a  few  hundreds,  was  now  worth  tens  of 
thousands.  Foresight  was  the  necessary  qualification. 
You  watched  the  "tendency"  of  things.  So  often  had  my 
father  said  to  himself:  "This  is  going  to  be  a  big  thing. 
That  other,  it  is  no  good,"  and  in  every  instance  his  prog- 
nostications had  been  verified.  He  had  "felt  it;"  some 
men  had  that  gift.  Now  was  the  time  to  use  it  for  prac- 
tical purposes. 

"Here,"  said  my  father,  breaking  off,  and  casting  an 
approving  eye  upon  the  surrounding  scenery,  "would  be  a 
pleasant  place  to  end  one's  days.  The  house  you  had  was 
very  pretty  and  you  liked  it.  We  might  enlarge  it,  the 
drawing-room  might  be  thrown  out — perhaps  another 
wing."  I  felt  that  our  good  fortune  as  from  this  day  was 
at  last  established. 

But  my  mother  had  been  listening  with  growing  impa- 
tience, her  puzzled  glances  giving  place  gradually  to 
flashes  of  anger;  and  now  she  turned  her  face  full  upon 
him,  her  question  written  plainly  thereon,  demanding  an- 
swer. 

Some  idea  of  it  I  had  even  then,  watching  her ;  and  since 
I  have  come  to  read  it  word  for  word  : 

"But  that  woman — that  woman  that  loves  you,  that  you 
love.  Ah,  I  know — why  do  you  play  with  me?  She  is 
rich.  With  her  your  life  will  be  smooth.  And  the  boy — 
it  will  be  better  far  for  him.  Cannot  you  three  wait  a  little 
longer?  What  more  can  I  do?  Cannot  you  see  that  I 
am  surely  dying — dying  as  quickly  as  I  can — dying  as 
that  poor  creature  your  friend  once  told  us  of ;  knowing  it 
was  the  only  thing  she  could  do  for  those  she  loved.  Be 
honest  with  me  :  I  am  no  longer  jealous.  All  that  is  past : 
a  man  is  ever  younger  than  a  woman,  and  a  man  changes. 
I  do  not  blame  you.  It  is  for  the  best.  She  and  I  have 
talked ;  it  is  far  better  so.    Only  be  honest  with  me,  or  at 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       123 

least  silent.  Will  you  not  honour  me  enough  for  even 
that?" 

My  father  did  not  answer,  having  that  to  speak  of  that 
put  my  mother's  question  out  of  her  mind  for  all  time ;  so 
that  until  the  end  no  word  concerning  that  other  woman 
passed  again  between  them.  Twenty  years  later,  nearly, 
I  myself  happened  to  meet  her,  and  then  long  physical  suf- 
fering had  chased  the  wantonness  away  for  ever  from  the 
pain-worn  mouth ;  but  in  that  hour  of  waning  voices,  as 
some  trouble  of  the  fretful  day  when  evening  falls,  so  she 
faded  from  their  life ;  and  if  even  the  remembrance  of  her 
returned  at  times  to  either  of  them,  I  think  it  must  have 
been  in  those  moments  when,  for  no  seeming  reason,  shyly 
their  hands  sought  one  another. 

So  the  truth  of  the  sad  ado — how  far  my  mother's  sus- 
picions wronged  my  father;  for  the  eye  of  jealousy  (and 
what  loving  woman  ever  lived  that  was  not  jealous?)  has 
its  optic  nerve  terminating  not  in  the  brain  but  in  the 
heart,  which  was  not  constructed  for  the  reception  of  true 
vision — I  never  knew.  Later,  long  after  the  curtain  of 
green  earth  had  been  rolled  down  upon  the  players,  I 
spoke  once  on  the  matter  with  Doctor  Hal,  who  must  have 
seen  something  of  the  play  and  with  more  understanding 
eyes  than  mine,  and  who  thereupon  delivered  to  me  a  short 
lecture  on  life  in  general,  a  performance  at  which  he  ex- 
celled. 

''Flee  from  temptation  and  pray  that  you  may  be  deliv- 
ered from  evil,"  shouted  the  Doctor — (his  was  not  the 
Socratic  method) — "but  remember  this :  that  as  sure  as 
the  sparks  fly  upward  there  will  come  a  time  when,  how- 
ever fast  you  run,  you  will  be  overtaken — cornered — no 
one  to  deliver  you  but  yourself — the  gods  sitting  round 
interested.  It  is  a  grim  fight,  for  the  Thing,  you  may  be 
sure,  has  chosen  its  right  moment.  And  every  woman  in 
the  world  will  sympathise  with  you  and  be  just  to  you,  not 
even  despising  you  should  you  be  overcome ;  for  however 
they  may  talk,  every  woman  in  the  world  knows  that  male 


124  P^^l  Kelver 

and  female  cannot  be  judged  by  the  same  standard.  To 
woman,  Nature  and  the  Law  speak  with  one  voice :  'Sin 
not,  lest  you  be  cursed  of  your  sex !'  It  is  no  law  of  man : 
it  is  the  law  of  creation.  When  the  woman  sins,  she  sins 
not  only  against  her  conscience,  but  against  her  every  in- 
stinct. But  to  the  man  Nature  whispers :  'Yield.'  It  is 
the  Law  alone  that  holds  him  back.  Therefore  every 
woman  in  the  world,  knowing  this,  will  be  just  to  you — 
every  woman  in  the  world  but  one — the  woman  that  loves 
you  From  her,  hope  for  no  sympathy,  hope  for  no  jus- 
tice." 

"Then  you  think — "  I  began. 

"I  think,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that  your  father  loved  your 
mother  devotedly;  but  he  was  one  of  those  fighters  that 
for  the  first  half-dozen  rounds  or  so  cause  their  backers 
much  anxiety.     It  is  a  dangerous  method." 

"Then  you  think  my  mother — " 

"I  think  your  mother  was  a  good  woman,  Paul ;  and  the 
good  woman  will  never  be  satisfied  with  man  till  the  Lord 
lets  her  take  him  to  pieces  and  put  him  together  herself." 

My  father  had  been  pacing  to  and  fro  the  tiny  platform. 
Now  he  came  to  a  halt  opposite  my  mother,  placing  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me,  Maggie — help  me  to  be  brave. 
I  have  only  a  year  or  two  longer  to  live,  and  there's  a  lot 
to  be  done  in  that  time." 

Slowly  the  anger  died  out  of  my  mother's  face. 

"You  remember  that  fall  I  had  when  the  cage  broke," 
my  father  went  on.  "Andrews,  as  you  know,  feared  from 
the  first  it  might  lead  to  that.  But  I  always  laughed  at 
him." 

"How  long  have  you  known  ?"  my  mother  asked. 

"Oh,  about  six  months.  I  felt  it  at  the  beginning  of 
the  year,  but  I  didn't  say  anything  to  Washburn  till  a 
month  later.     I  thought  it  might  be  only  fancy." 

"And  he  is  sure?" 

My  father  nodded. 


Of  the  Passing  of  the  Shadow       125 

"But  why  have  you  never  told  me  ?" 

"Because,"  rephed  my  father,  with  a  laugh,  "I  didn't 
want  you  to  know.  If  I  could  have  done  without  you,  I 
should  not  have  told  you  now." 

And  at  this  there  came  a  light  into  my  mother's  face 
that  never  altogether  left  it  until  the  end. 

She  drew  him  down  beside  her  on  the  seat.  I  had  come 
nearer;  and  my  father,  stretching  out  his  hand,  would 
have  had  me  with  them.  But  my  mother,  putting  her 
arms  about  him,  held  him  close  to  her,  as  though  in  that 
moment  she  would  have  had  him  to  herself  alone. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HOW  THE  MAN  IN  GREY  MADE  READY  FOR  HIS  GOING. 

The  eighteen  months  that  followed — for  the  end  came 
sooner  than  we  had  expected — were,  I  think,  the  happiest 
days  my  father  and  mother  had  ever  known ;  or  if  happy 
be  not  altogether  the  right  word,  let  me  say  the  most  beau- 
tiful, and  most  nearly  perfect.  To  them  it  was  as  though 
God  in  His  sweet  thoughtfulness  had  sent  death  to  knock 
lightly  at  the  door,  saying:  ''Not  yet.  You  have  still  a 
little  longer  to  be  together.  In  a  little  while."  In  those 
last  days  all  things  false  and  meaningless  they  laid  aside. 
Nothing  was  of  real  importance  to  them  but  that  they 
should  love  each  other,  comforting  each  other,  learning 
to  understand  each  other.  Again  we  lived  poorly;  but 
there  was  now  no  pitiful  straining  to  keep  up  appearances, 
no  haunting  terror  of  what  the  neighbours  might  think. 
The  petty  cares  and  worries  concerning  matters  not  worth 
a  moment's  thought,  the  mean  desires  and  fears  with 
which  we  disfigure  ourselves,  fell  from  them.  There  came 
to  them  broader  thought,  a  wider  charity,  a  deeper  pity. 
Their  love  grew  greater  even  than  their  needs,  overflow- 
ing towards  at  things.  Sometimes,  recalling  these  months, 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  we  make  a  mistake  seeking 
to  keep  Death,  God's  go-between,  ever  from  our  thoughts. 
Is  it  not  closing  the  door  to  a  friend  who  would  help  us 
would  we  let  him  (for  who  knows  life  so  well),  whisper- 
ing to  us  :  "In  a  little  while.  Only  a  little  longer  that  you 
have  to  be  together.  Is  it  worth  taking  so  much  thought 
for  self  ?     Is  it  worth  while  being  unkind  ?" 

From  them  a  graciousness  emanated  pervading  all 
around.     Even  my  aunt  Fan  decided  for  the  second  time 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      1 27 

in  her  career  to  give  amiability  a  trial.  This  intention 
she  announced  publicly  to  my  mother  and  myself  one  af- 
ternoon soon  after  our  return  from  Devonshire. 

"I'm  a  beast  of  an  old  woman,"  said  my  aunt,  suddenly. 

"Don't  say  that.  Fan,"  urged  my  mother. 

"What's  the  good  of  saying  'Don't  say  it'  when  I've 
just  said  it,"  snapped  back  my  aunt. 

"It's  your  manner,"  explained  my  mother;  "people 
sometimes  think  you  disagreeable." 

"They'd  be  daft  if  they  didn't,"  interrupted  my  aunt. 

"Of  course  you  don't  really  mean  it,"  continued  my 
mother. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,"  snorted  my  aunt;  "does  she  think 
I'm  a  fool.  I  like  being  disagreeable.  I  like  to  see  'em 
squirming." 

My  mother  laughed. 

"I  can  be  agreeable,"  continued  my  aunt,  "if  I  choose. 
Nobody  more  so." 

"Then  why  not  choose?"  suggested  my  mother. 

"I  tried  it  once,"  said  my  aunt,  "and  it  fell  flat.  Noth- 
ing could  have  fallen  flatter." 

"It  may  not  have  attracted  much  attention,"  replied  my 
mother,  with  a  smile,  "but  one  should  not  be  agreeable 
merely  to  attract  attention." 

"It  wasn't  only  that,"  returned  my  aunt,  "it  was  that 
it  gave  no  satisfaction  to  anybody.  It  didn't  suit  me.  A 
disagreeable  person  is  at  their  best  when  they  are  dis- 
agreeable." 

"I  can  hardly  agree  with  you  there,"  answered  my 
mother. 

"I  could  do  it  again,"  communed  my  aunt  to  herself. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  vindictiveness  in  her  tones. 
"It's  easy  enough.  Look  at  the  sort  of  fools  that  are 
agreeable." 

"I'm  sure  you  could  be  if  you  tried,"  urged  my  mother. 

"Let  'em  have  it,"  continued  my  aunt,  still  to  herself ; 
"that's  the  way  to  teach  'em  sense.     Let  'em  have  it." 


128  Paul  Kelver 

And  strange  though  it  may  seem,  my  aunt  was  right 
and  my  mother  altogether  wrong.  My  father  was  the 
first  to  notice  the  change. 

''Nothing  the  matter  with  poor  old  Fan,  is  there?"  he 
asked.  It  was  one  evening  a  day  or  two  after  my  aunt 
had  carried  her  threat  into  effect.  "Nothing  happened, 
has  there  ?" 

"No,"  answered  my  mother,  "nothing  that  I  know  of." 

"Her  manner  is  so  strange,"  explained  my  father,  "so 
— so  weird." 

My  mother  smiled.  "Don't  say  anything  to  her.  She's 
trying  to  be  agreeable." 

My  father  laughed  and  then  looked  wistful.  "I  almost 
wish  she  wouldn't,"  he  remarked;  "we  were  used  to  it, 
and  she  was  rather  amusing." 

But  my  aunt,  being  a  woman  of  will,  kept  her  way ;  and 
about  the  same  time  that  occurred  tending  to  confirm  her 
in  her  new  departure.  This  was  the  introduction  into  our 
small  circle  of  James  Wellington  Gadley.  Properly 
speaking,  it  should  have  been  Wellington  James,  that 
being  the  order  in  which  he  had  been  christened  in  the 
year  1815.  But  in  course  of  time,  and  particularly 
during  his  school  career,  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  him 
that  Wellington  is  a  burdensome  name  for  a  commonplace 
mortal  to  bear,  and  very  wisely  he  had  reversed  the  ar- 
rangement. He  was  a  slightly  pompous  but  simple- 
minded  little  old  gentleman,  very  proud  of  his  position  as 
head  clerk  to  Mr.  Stillwood,  the  solicitor  to  whom  my 
father  was  now  assistant.  Stillwood,  Waterhead  and 
Royal  dated  back  to  the  Georges,  and  was  a  firm  bound 
up  with  the  history — occasionally  shady — of  aristocratic 
England.  True,  in  these  later  years  its  glory  was  dwind- 
ling. Old  Mr.  Stillwood,  its  sole  surviving  representative, 
declined  to  be  troubled  with  new  partners,  explaining 
frankly,  in  answer  to  all  applications,  that  the  business  was 
a  dying  one,  and  that  attempting  to  work  it  up  again 
would  be  but  putting  new  wine  into  worn-out  skins.    But 


How  the  Man  In  Grey  Made  Ready      129 

though  its  clientele  was  a  yearly  diminishing  quantity, 
much  business  yet  remained  to  it,  and  that  of  a  good  class, 
its  name  being  still  a  synonym  for  solid  respectability ;  and 
my  father  had  deemed  himself  fortunate  indeed  in  secur- 
ing such  an  appointment.  James  Gadley  had  entered  the 
firm  as  office  boy  in  the  days  of  its  pride,  and  had  never 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  it  was  not  still  the  most  impor- 
tant legal  firm  within  the  half  mile  radius  from  Lombard 
Street.  Nothing  delighted  him  more  than  to  discuss  over 
and  over  again  the  many  strange  affairs  in  which  Still- 
wood,  Waterhead  and  Royal  had  been  concerned,  all  of 
which  he  had  at  his  tongue's  tip.  Could  he  find  a  hearer, 
these  he  would  reargue  interminably,  but  with  profes- 
sional reticence,  personages  becoming  Mr.  Y.  and  Lady 
X. ;  and  places,  "the  capital  of,  let  us  say,  a  foreign  coun- 
try,'* or  "a.  certain  town  not  a  thousand  miles  from  where 
we  are  now  sitting."  The  majority  of  his  friends,  his 
methods  being  somewhat  forensic,  would  seek  to  discour- 
age him,  but  my  aunt  was  a  never  wearied  listener,  espe- 
cially if  the  case  were  one  involving  suspicion  of  mystery 
and  crime.  When,  during  their  very  first  conversation,  he 
exclaimed :  "Now  why — why,  after  keeping  away  from  his 
wife  for  nearly  eighteen  years,  never  even  letting  her 
know  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead,  why  this  sudden  re- 
solve to  return  to  her  ?  That  is  what  I  want  explained  to 
me!"  he  paused,  as  was  his  wont,  for  sympathetic  com- 
ment, my  aunt,  instead  of  answering  as  others,  with  a 
yawn:  "Oh,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Felt  he  wanted  to 
see  her,  I  suppose,"  replied  with  prompt  intelligence : 

"To  murder  her — by  slow  poison." 

"To  murder  her!     But  why?" 

"In  order  to  marry  the  other  woman." 

"What  other  woman?" 

"The  woman  he  had  just  met  and  fallen  in  love  with. 
Before  that  it  was  immaterial  to  him  what  had  become  of 
his  wife.  This  woman  had  said  to  him:  'Come  back  to 
me  a  free  man  or  never  see  my  face  again.'  " 


130  Paul  Kelver 

"Dear  me !     Now  that's  very  curious/* 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.     Plain  common  sense." 

"I  mean,  it's  curious  because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  his 
wife  did  die  a  little  later,  and  he  did  marry  again." 

"Told  you  so,"  remarked  my  aunt. 

In  this  way  every  case  in  the  Stillwood  annals  was  re- 
viewed, and  light  thrown  upon  it  by  my  aunt's  insight 
into  the  hidden  springs  of  human  action.  Fortunate  that 
the  actors  remained  mere  Mr.  X.  and  Lady  Y.,  for  into 
the  most  innocent  seeming  behaviour  my  aunt  read  ever 
dark  criminal  intent. 

"I  think  you  are  a  little  too  severe,"  Mr.  Gadley  would 
now  and  then  plead. 

"We're  all  of  us  miserable  sinners,"  my  aunt  would 
cheerfully  affirm;  "only  we  don't  all  get  the  same 
chances." 

An  elderly  maiden  lady,  a  Miss  Z.,  residing  in  "a  western 
town  once  famous  as  the  resort  of  fashion,  but  which  we 
v/ill  not  name,"  my  aunt  was  convinced  had  burnt  down  a 
house  containing  a  will,  and  forged  another  under  which 
her  children — should  she  ever  marry  and  be  blessed  with 
such — would  inherit  among  them  on  coming  of  age  a  for- 
tune of  seven  hundred  pounds. 

The  freshness  of  her  views  on  this,  his  favourite  topic, 
always  fascinated  Mr.  Gadley. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  would  remark  on 
rising,  "for  a  most  delightful  conversation.  I  may  not  be 
able  to  agree  with  your  conclusions,  but  they  afford  food 
for  reflection." 

To  which  my  aunt  would  reply,  "I  hate  talking  to  any 
one  who  agrees  with  me.  It's  like  taking  a  walk  to  see 
one's  own  looking-glass.  I'd  rather  talk  to  somebody 
who  didn't,  even  if  he  were  a  fool,"  which  for  her  was 
gracious. 

He  was  a  stout  little  gentleman  with  a  stomach  that 
protruded  about  a  foot  in  front  of  him,  and  of  this  he  ap- 
peared to  be  quite  unaware.     Nor  would  it  have  mattered 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      131 

had  it  not  been  for  his  desire  when  talking  to  approach  as 
close  to  his  listener  as  possible.  Gradually  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  his  stomach  acting  as  a  gentle  battering 
ram,  he  would  in  this  way  drive  you  backwards  round  the 
room,  sometimes,  unless  you  were  artful,  pinning  you 
hopelessly  into  a  corner,  when  it  would  surprise  him  that 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  he  never  succeeded  in  getting  any 
nearer  to  you.  His  first  evening  at  our  house  he  was 
talking  to  my  aunt  from  the  corner  of  his  chair.  As  he 
grew  more  interested  so  he  drew  his  chair  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  at  length,  having  withdrawn  inch  by  inch  to 
avoid  his  encroachments,  my  aunt  was  sitting  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  her  own.  His  next  move  sent  her  on  to  the 
floor.  She  said  nothing,  which  surprised  me ;  but  on  the 
occasion  of  his  next  visit  she  was  busy  darning  stockings, 
an  unusual  occupation  for  her.  He  approached  nearer 
and  nearer  as  before;  but  this  time  she  sat  her  ground, 
and  it  was  he  who  in  course  of  time  sprang  back  with  an 
exclamation  foreign  to  the  subject  under  discussion. 

Ever  afterwards  my  aunt  met  him  with  stockings  in  her 
hand,  and  they  talked  with  a  space  between  their  chairs. 

Nothing  further  came  of  it,  though  his  being  a  widower 
added  to  their  intercourse  that  spice  of  possibility  no 
woman  is  ever  too  old  to  relish ;  but  that  he  admired  her 
intellectually  was  evident.  Once  he  even  went  so  far  as 
to  exclaim :  "Miss  Davies,  you  should  have  been  a  solici- 
tor's wife  I"  to  his  thinking  the  crown  of  feminine  ambi- 
tion. To  which  my  aunt  had  replied :  "Chances  are  I 
should  have  been  if  one  had  ever  asked  me."  And 
warmed  by  appreciation,  my  aunt's  amiability  took  root 
and  flourished,  though  assuming,  as  all  growth  developed 
late  is  apt  to,  fantastic  shape. 

There  came  to  her  the  idea,  by  no  means  ill-founded, 
that  by  flattery  one  can  most  readily  render  oneself  agree- 
able ;  so  conscientiously  she  set  to  work  to  flatter  in  season 
and  out.  I  am  sure  she  meant  to  give  pleasure,  but  the 
effect  produced  was  that  of  thinly  veiled  sarcasm. 


132  Paul  Kelver 

My  father  would  relate  to  us  some  trifling  story,  some 
incident  noticed  during  the  day  that  had  seemed  to  him 
amusing.  At  once  she  would  break  out  into  enthusiasm, 
holding  up  her  hands  in  astonishment. 

"What  a  funny  man  he  is !  And  to  think  that  it  comes, 
to  him  naturally  without  an  effort.     What  a  gift  it  is  !'* 

On  my  mother  appearing  in  a  new  bonnet,  or  an  old 
one  retrimmed,  an  event  not  unf requent ;  for  in  these  days 
my  mother  took  more  thought  than  ever  formerly  for  her 
appearance  (you  will  understand,  you  women  who  have 
loved),  she  would  step  back  in  simulated  amazement. 

"Don't  tell  me  it's  a  married  woman  with  a  boy  getting 
on  for  fourteen.  It's  a  girl.  A  saucy,  tripping  girl. 
That's  what  it  is." 

Persons  have  been  known,  I  believe,  whose  vanity,  not 
checked  in  time,  has  grown  into  a  hopeless  disease.  But 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  a  dose  of  my  aunt,  about  this 
period,  would  have  cured  the  most  obstinate  case. 

So  also,  and  solely  for  our  benefit,  she  assumed  a  vivac- 
ity and  spriteliness  that  ill  suited  her,  that  having  regard 
to  her  age  and  tendency  towards  rheumatism  must  have 
cost  her  no  small  effort.  From  these  experiences  there 
remains  to  me  the  perhaps  immoral  opinion  that  Virtue, 
in  common  with  all  other  things,  is  at  her  best  when  un- 
assuming. 

Occasionally  the  old  Adam — or  should  one  say  Eve — 
would  assert  itself  in  my  aunt,  and  then,  still  thoughtful 
for  others,  she  would  descend  into  the  kitchen  and  be  dis- 
agreeable to  Amy,  our  new  servitor,  who  never  minded  it. 
Amy  was  a  philosopher  who  reconciled  herself  to  all 
things  by  the  reflection  that  there  were  only  twenty-four 
hours  in  a  day.  It  sounds  a  dismal  theory,  but  from  it 
Amy  succeeded  in  extracting  perpetual  cheerfulness.  My 
mother  would  apologise  to  her  for  my  aunt's  interference. 

"Lord  bless  you,  mum,  it  don't  matter.  If  I  wasn't 
listening  to  her  something  else  worse  might  be  happening. 
Everything's  al^^t^he  same  when  it's  over." 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      133 

Amy  had  come  to  us  merely  as  a  stop  gap,  explaining 
to  my  mother  that  she  was  about  to  be  married  and  desired 
only  a  temporary  engagement  to  bridge  over  the  few 
weeks  between  then  and  the  ceremony. 

"It's  rather  unsatisfactory,"  had  said  my  mother.  "I 
dislike  changes." 

''I  can  quite  understand  it,  mum,"  had  replied 
Amy;  *'I  dislike  'em  myself.  Only  I  heard  you  were  in 
a  hurry,  and  I  thought  maybe  that  while  you  were  on  the 
lookout  for  somebody  permanent " 

So  on  that  understanding  she  came.  A  month  later  my 
mother  asked  her  when  she  thought  the  marriage  would 
actually  take  place. 

"Don't  think  I'm  wishing  you  to  go,"  explained  my 
mother,  "indeed  I'd  like  you  to  stop.  I  only  want  to 
know  in  time  to  make  my  arrangements." 

"Oh,  some  time  in  the  spring,  I  expect,"  was  Amy's 
answer. 

"Oh !"  said  my  mother,  "I  understood  it  was  coming  off 
almost  immediately." 

Amy  appeared  shocked. 

"I  must  know  a  little  bit  more  about  him  before  I  go  as 
far  as  that,"  she  said. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  said  my  mother;  "you  told 
me  when  you  came  to  me  that  you  were  going  to  be  mar- 
ried in  a  few  weeks." 

"Oh,  that  one!"  Her  tone  suggested  that  an  unfair 
strain  was  being  put  upon  her  memory.  "I  didn't  feel  I 
wanted  him  as  much  as  I  thought  I  did  when  it  came  to 
the  point." 

"You  had  meantime  met  the  other  one?"  suggested  my 
mother,  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  we  can't  help  our  feelings,  can  we,  mum?"  ad- 
mitted Amy,  frankly,  "and  what  I  always  say  is" —  she 
spoke  as  one  with  experience  even  then — "better  change 
your  mind  before  it's  too  late  afterwards." 

Amiable,  sweet- faced,  broad-hearted  Amy !  most  faith- 


134  Pa^l  Kelver 

ful  of  friends,  but  oh !  most  faithless  of  lovers.  Age  has 
not  withered  nor  custom  staled  her  liking  for  infinite 
variety.  Butchers,  bakers,  soldiers,  sailors.  Jacks  of  all 
trades!  Does  the  sighing  procession  never  pass  before 
you.  Amy,  pointing  ghostly  fingers  of  reproach!  Still 
Amy  is  engaged.  To  whom  at  the  particular  moment  I 
cannot  say,  but  I  fancy  to  an  early  one  who  has  lately  be- 
come a  widower.  After  more  exact  knowledge  I  do  not 
care  to  enquire;  for  to  confess  ignorance  on  the  subject, 
implying  that  one  has  treated  as  a  triviality  and  has  for- 
gotten the  most  important  detail  of  a  matter  that  to  her  is 
of  vital  importance,  is  to  hurt  her  feelings ;  while  to  angle 
for  information  is  but  to  entangle  oneself.  To  speak  of 
Him  as  "Tom,"  when  Tom  has  belonged  for  weeks  to  the 
dead  and  buried  past,  to  hastily  correct  oneself  to  "Dick" 
when  there  hasn't  been  a  Dick  for  years,  clearly  not  to 
know  that  he  is  now  Harry,  annoys  her  even  more.  In 
my  mother's  time  we  always  referred  to  him  as  "Dearest." 
It  was  the  title  with  which  she  herself  distinguished  them 
all,  and  it  avoided  confusion. 

"Well,  and  how's  Dearest?"  my  mother  would  enquire, 
opening  the  door  to  Amy  on  the  Sunday  evening. 

"Oh,  very  well  indeed,  mum,  thank  you,  and  he  sends 
you  his  respects,"  or,  "Well,  not  so  nicely  as  I  could  wish. 
I'm  a  little  anxious  about  him,  poor  dear !" 

"When  you  are  married  you  will  be  able  to  take  good 
care  of  him." 

"That's  really  what  he  wants — some  one  to  take  care  of 
him.     It's  what  they  all  want,  the  poor  dears." 

"And  when  is  it  coming  off?" 
'     "In  the  spring,  mum."     She  always  chose  the  spring 
when  possible. 

Amy  was  nice  to  all  men,  and  to  Amy  all  men  were  nice. 
Could  she  have  married  a  dozen,  she  might  have  settled 
down,  with  only  occasional  regrets  concerning  those  left 
without  in  the  cold.     But  to  ask  her  to  select  only  one  out 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      135 

of  so  many  "poor  dears"  was  to  suggest  shameful  waste  of 
affection. 

We  had  meant  to  keep  our  grim  secret  to  ourselves ;  but 
to  hide  one's  troubles  long  from  Amy  was  like  keeping 
cold  hands  from  the  fire.  Very  soon  she  knew  everything 
that  was  to  be  known,  drawing  it  all  from  my  mother  as 
from  some  overburdened  child.  Then  she  put  my  mother 
down  into  a  chair  and  stood  over  her. 

"Now  you  leave  the  house  and  everything  connected 
with  it  to  me,  mum,"  commanded  Amy;  "you've  got 
something  else  to  do." 

And  from  that  day  we  were  in  the  hands  of  Amy,  and 
had  nothing  else  to  do  but  praise  the  Lord  for  His  good- 
ness. 

Barbara  also  found  out  (from  Washburn,  I  expect), 
though  she  said  nothing,  but  came  often.  Old  Hasluck 
would  have  come  himself,  I  am  sure,  had  he  thought  he 
would  be  welcome.  As  it  was,  he  always  sent  kind  mes- 
sages and  presents  of  fruit  and  flowers  by  Barbara,  and  al- 
ways welcomed  me  most  heartily  whenever  she  allowed 
me  to  see  her  home. 

She  brought,  as  ever,  sunshine  with  her,  making  all 
trouble  seem  far  off  and  shadowy.  My  mother  tended  to 
the  fire  of  love,  but  Barbara  lit  the  cheerful  lamp  of 
laughter. 

And  with  the  lessening. days  my  father  seemed  to  grow 
younger,  life  lying  lighter  on  him. 

One  summer's  night  he  and  I  were  walking  with  Bar- 
bara to  Poplar  station,  for  sometimes,  when  he  was  not 
looking  tired,  she  would  order  him  to  fetch  his  hat  and 
stick,  explaining  to  him  with  a  caress,  "I  like  them  tall 
and  slight  and  full  grown.  The  young  ones,  they  don't 
know  how  to  flirt !  We  will  take  the  boy  with  us  as 
gooseberry;"  and  he,  pretending  to  be  anxious  that  my 
mother  did  not  see,  would  kiss  her  hand,  and  slip  out 
quietly  with  her  arm  linked  under  his.  It  was  admirable, 
the  way  he  would  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing. 


136  Paul  Kelver 

The  last  cloud  faded  from  before  the  moon  as  we  turned 
the  corner,  and  even  the  East  India  Dock  Road  lay  restful 
in  front  of  us. 

"I  have  always  regarded  myself,"  said  my  father,  "as  a 
failure  in  life,  and  it  has  troubled  me."  I  felt  him  pulled 
the  slightest  little  bit  away  from  me,  as  though  Barbara, 
who  held  his  other  arm,  had  drawn  him  towards  her  with 
a  swift  pressure.  ''But  do  you  know  the  idea  that  has 
come  to  me  within  the  last  few  months?  That  on  the 
whole  I  have  been  successful.  I  am  Hke  a  man,"  con- 
tinued my  father,  "who  in  some  deep  wood  has  been 
frightened,  thinking  he  has  lost  his  way,  and  suddenly 
coming  to  the  end  of  it,  finds  that  by  some  lucky  chance 
he  has  been  guided  to  the  right  point  after  all.  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  me." 

"What  is  the  right  point  ?"  asked  Barbara. 

"Ah,  that  I  cannot  tell  you,"  answered  my  father,  with 
a  laugh.  "I  only  know  that  for  me  it  is  here  where  I  am. 
All  the  time  I  thought  I  was  wandering  away  from  it  I 
was  drawing  nearer  to  it.  It  is  very  wonderful.  I  am 
just  where  I  ought  to  be.  If  I  had  only  known  I  never 
need  have  worried." 

Whether  it  would  have  troubled  either  him  or  my 
mother  very  much  even  had  it  been  otherwise  I  cannot  say, 
for  Life,  so  small  a  thing  when  looked  at  beside  Death, 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  terror  for  them ;  but  be  that  as  it 
may,  I  like  to  remember  that  Fortune  at  the  last  was  kind 
to  my  father,  prospering  his  adventures,  not  to  the  extent 
his  sanguine  nature  had  dreamt,  but  sufficiently:  so  that 
no  fear  for  our  future  marred  the  peaceful  passing  of  his 
tender  spirit. 

Or  should  I  award  thanks  not  to  Fate,  but  rather  to 
sweet  Barbara,  and  behind  her  do  I  not  detect  shameless 
old  Hasluck.  grinning  good-naturedly  in  the  background  ? 

"Now,  Uncle  Luke,  I  want  your  advice.  Dad's  given 
me  this  cheque  as  a  birthday  present.  I  don't  want  to 
spend  it.     How  shall  I  invest  it  ?" 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      137 

"My  dear,  why  not  consult  your  father?" 

"Now,  Uncle  Luke,  dad's  a  dear,  especially  after  din- 
ner, but  you  and  I  know  him.  Giving  me  a  present  is 
one  thing,  doing  business  for  me  is  another.  He'd  un- 
load on  me.  He'd  never  be  able  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion." 

My  father  would  suggest,,  and  Barbara  would  thank 
him.  But  a  minute  later  would  murmur:  "You  don't 
know  anything  about  Argentinos." 

My  father  did  not,  but  Barbara  did ;  to  quite  a  remark- 
able extent  for  a  young  girl. 

"That  child  has  insisted  on  leaving  this  cheque  with  me, 
and  I  have  advised  her  to  buy  Argentinos,"  my  father 
would  observe  after  she  was  gone.  "I  am  going  to  put  a 
few  hundreds  into  them  myself.  I  hope  they  will  turn 
out  all  right,  if  only  for  her  sake.  I  have  a  presentiment 
somehow  that  they  will." 

A  month  later  Barbara  would  greet  him  with :  "Isn't  it 
lucky  we  bought  Argentinos !" 

"Yes ;  they  haven't  turned  out  badly,  have  they  ?  I  had 
a  feeling,  you  know,  for  Argentinos." 

"You're  a  genius.  Uncle  Luke.  And  now  we  will  sell 
out  and  buy  Calcuttas,  won't  we  ?" 

"Sellout?     But  why?" 

"You  said  so.  You  said,  'We  will  sell  out  in  about  a 
month  and  be  quite  safe.'  " 

"My  dear,  I've  no  recollection  of  it." 

But  Barabara  had,  and  before  she  had  done  with  him, 
so  had  he.  And  the  next  day  Argentinos  would  be  sold 
— not  any  too  soon — and  Calcuttas  bought. 

Could  money  so  gained  bring  a  blessing  with  it  ?  The 
question  would  plague  my  father. 

"It's  very  much  like  gambling,"  he  would  mutter  un- 
easily to  himself  at  each  success,  "uncommonly  like  gam- 
bling." 

"It  is  for  your  mother,"  he  would  impress  upon  me. 
"When  she  is  gone,  Paul,  put  it  aside.     Keep  it  for  doing 


138  Paul  Kelver 

good ;  that  may  make  it  clean.  Start  your  own  life  with- 
out any  help  from  it." 

He  need  not  have  troubled.  It  went  the  road  that  all 
luck  derived  however  indirectly  from  old  Hasluck  ever 
went.     Yet  it  served  good  purpose  on  its  way. 

But  the  most  marvellous  feat,  to  my  thinking,  ever  ac- 
complished by  Barbara  was  the  bearing  off  of  my  father 
and  mother  to  witness  "A  Voice  from  the  Grave,  or  the 
Power  of  Love,  New  and  Original  Drama  in  five  acts 
and  thirteen  tableaux." 

They  had  been  bred  in  a  narrow  creed,  both  my  father 
and  my  mother.  That  Puritan  blood  flowed  in  their  veins 
that  throughout  our  land  has  drowned  much  harmless 
joyousness;  yet  those  who  know  of  it  only  from  hearsay 
do  foolishly  to  speak  but  ill  of  it.  If  ever  earnest  times 
should  come  again,  not  how  to  enjoy  but  how  to  live  being 
the  question.  Fate  demanding  of  us  to  show  not  what  we 
have  but  what  we  are,  we  may  regret  that  they  are  fewer 
among  us  than  formerly,  those  who  trained  themselves  to 
despise  all  pleasure,  because  in  pleasure  they  saw  the 
subtlest  foe  to  principle  and  duty.  No  graceful  growth, 
this  Puritanism,  for  its  roots  are  in  the  hard,  stern  facts  of 
life;  but  it  is  strong,  and  from  it  has  sprung  all  that  is 
worth  preserving  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  character.  Its  men 
feared  and  its  women  loved  God,  and  if  their  words  were 
harsh  their  hearts  were  tender.  If  they  shut  out  the  sun- 
shine from  their  lives  it  was  that  their  eyes  might  see 
better  the  glory  lying  beyond ;  and  if  their  view  be  correct, 
that  earth's  threescore  years  and  ten  are  but  as  prepara- 
tion for  eternity,  then  who  shall  call  them  even  foolish  for 
turning  away  their  thoughts  from  its  allurements. 

"Still,  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  one,  just 
to  see  what  it  is  like,"  argued  my  father;  "one  cannot 
judge  of  a  thing  that  one  knows  nothing  about." 

I  imagine  it  was  his  first  argument  rather  than  his  sec- 
ond that  convinced  my  mother. 

"That   is   true,"   she   answered.      "I   remember   how 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      139 

shocked  my  poor  father  was  when  he  found  me  one  night 
at  the  bedroom  window  reading  Sir  Walter  Scott  by  the 
light  of  the  moon." 

"What  about  the  boy?"  said  my  father,  for  I  had  been 
included  in  the  invitation. 

''We  will  all  be  wicked  together,"  said  my  mother. 

So  an  evening  or  two  later  the  four  of  us  stood  at  the 
corner  of  Pigott  Street  waiting  for  the  'bus. 

"It  is  a  close  evening,"  said  my  father;  "let's  go  the 
whole  hog  and  ride  outside." 

In  those  days  for  a  lady  to  ride  outside  a  'bus  was  as  in 
these  days  for  a  lady  to  smoke  in  public.  Surely  my 
mother's  guardian  angel  must  have  betaken  himself  off  in 
a  huff. 

"Will  you  keep  close  behind  and  see  to  my  skirt?"  an- 
swered my  mother,  commencing  preparations.  If  you 
will  remember  that  these  were  the  days  of  crinolines,  that 
the  "knife-boards"  of  omnibuses  were  then  approached  by 
a  perpendicular  ladder,  the  rungs  two  feet  apart,  you  will 
understand  the  necessity  for  such  precaution. 

Which  of  us  was  the  most  excited  throughout  that  long 
ride  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Barbara,  feeling  keenly 
her  responsibility  as  prompter  and  leader  of  the  dread  en- 
terprise, sat  anxious,  as  she  explained  to  us  afterwards, 
hoping  there  would  be  nothing  shocking  in  the  play,  noth- 
ing to  belie  its  innocent  title ;  pleased  with  her  success  so 
far,  yet  still  fearful  of  failure,  doubtful  till  the  last  mo- 
ment lest  we  should  suddenly  repent,  and  stopping  the 
'bus,  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come.  My  father  was  the 
youngest  of  us  all.  Compared  with  him  I  was  sober  and 
contained.  He  fidgeted :  people  remarked  upon  it.  He 
hummed.  But  for  the  stern  eye  of  a  thin  young  man  sit- 
ting next  to  him  trying  to  read  a  paper,  I  believe  he  would 
have  broken  out  into  song.  Every  minute  he  would  lean 
across  to  enquire  of  my  mother :  "How  are  you  feeling — 
all  right  ?"  To  which  my  mother  would  reply  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile.     She  sat  very  silent  herself,  clasping  and  un- 


140  Paul  Kelver 

clasping  her  hands.  As  for  myself,  I  remember  feeling 
so  sorry  for  the  crowds  that  passed  us  on  their  way  home. 
It  was  sad  to  think  of  the  long  dull  evening  that  lay  before 
them.     I  wondered  how  they  could  face  it. 

Our  seats  were  in  the  front  row  of  the  upper  circle. 
The  lights  were  low  and  the  house  only  half  full  when  we 
reached  them. 

"It  seems  very  orderly  and — and  respectable,"  whis- 
pered my  mother.  There  seemed  a  touch  of  disappoint- 
ment in  her  tone. 

*'We  are  rather  early,"  replied  Barbara;  *'it  will  be 
livelier  when  the  band  comes  in  and  they  turn  up  the  gas." 

But  even  when  this  happened  my  mother  was  not  con- 
tent. "There  is  so  little  room  for  the  actors,"  she  com- 
plained. 

It  was  explained  to  her  that  the  green  curtain  would  go 
up,  that  the  stage  lay  behind. 

So  we  waited,  my  mother  sitting  stiffly  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  her  seat,  holding  me  tightly  by  the  hand ;  I  believe 
with  some  vague  idea  of  flight,  should  out  of  that  vault- 
scented  gloom  the  devil  suddenly  appear  to  claim  us  for 
his  own.  But  before  the  curtain  was  quite  up  she  had 
forgotten  him. 

You  poor  folk  that  go  to  the  theatre  a  dozen  times  a 
year,  perhaps  oftener,  v/hat  do  you  know  of  plays?  You 
see  no  drama,  you  see  but  middle-aged  Mr.  Brown, 
churchwarden,  payer  of  taxes,  foolishly  pretending  to  be 
a  brigand ;  Miss  Jones,  daughter  of  old  Jones  the  Chemist, 
making  believe  to  be  a  haughty  Princess.  How  can  you, 
a  grown  man,  waste  money  on  a  seat  to  witness  such  tom- 
foolery! What  we  saw  was  something  very  different. 
A  young  and  beautiful  girl — true,  not  a  lady  by  birth, 
being  merely  the  daughter  of  an  honest  yeoman,  but  one 
equal  in  all  the  essentials  of  womanhood  to  the  noblest  in 
the  land — suffered  before  our  very  eyes  an  amount  of  mis- 
fortune that,  had  one  not  seen  it  for  oneself,  one  would 
never  have  believed  Fate  could  have  accumulated  upon 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      141 

the  head  of  any  single  individual.  Beside  her  woes  our 
own  poor  troubles  sank  into  insignificance.  We  had  used 
to  grieve,  as  my  mother  in  a  whisper  reminded  my  father, 
if  now  and  again  we  had  not  been  able  to  afford  meat  for 
dinner.  This  poor  creature,  driven  even  from  her 
wretched  attic,  compelled  to  wander  through  the  snow 
without  so  much  as  an  umbrella  to  protect  her,  had  not 
even  a  crust  to  eat ;  and  yet  never  lost  her  faith  in  Prov- 
idence. It  was  a  lesson,  as  my  mother  remarked  after- 
wards, that  she  should  never  forget.  And  virtue  had  been 
triumphant,  let  shallow  cynics  say  what  they  will.  Had 
we  not  proved  it  with  our  own  senses?  The  villain — I 
think  his  Christian  name,  if  one  can  apply  the  word 
"Christian"  in  connection  with  such  a  fiend,  was  Jasper — 
had  never  really  loved  the  heroine.  He  was  incapable  of 
love.  My  mother  had  felt  this  before  he  had  been  on  the 
stage  five  minutes,  and  my  father — in  spite  of  protests 
from  callous  people  behind  who  appeared  to  be  utterly  in- 
different to  what  was  going  on  under  their  very  noses — 
had  agreed  with  her.  What  he  was  in  love  with  was  her 
fortune — the  fortune  that  had  been  left  to  her  by  her  uncle 
in  Australia,  but  about  which  nobody  but  the  villain  knew 
anything.  Had  she  swerved  a  hair's  breadth  from 
the  course  of  almost  supernatural  rectitude,  had  her  love 
for  the  hero  ever  weakened,  her  belief  in  him — in  spite  of 
damning  evidence  to  the  contrary — for  a  moment 
wavered,  then  wickedness  might  have  triumphed.  How 
at  times,  knowing  all  the  facts  but  helpless  to  interfere, 
we  trembled,  lest  deceived  by  the  cruel  lies  the  villain  told 
her^  she  should  yield  to  importunity.  How  we  thrilled 
when,  in  language  eloquent  though  rude,  she  flung  his 
false  love  back  into  his  teeth.  Yet  still  we  feared.  We 
knew  well  that  it  was  not  the  hero  who  had  done  the  mur- 
der. "Poor  dear,"  as  Amy  would  have  called  him,  he 
was  quite  incapable  of  doing  anything  requiring  one-half 
as  much  smartness.  We  knew  that  it  was  not  he,  poor  in- 
nocent lamb !  who  had  betrayed  the  lady  with  the  French 


142  Paul  Kelver 

accent;  we  had  heard  her  on  the  subject  ai^d  had  formed 
a  very  shrewd  conjecture.  But  appearances,  we  could  not 
help  admitting,  were  terribly  to  his  disfavour.  The  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  against  him  would  have  hanged  an 
Archbishop.  Could  she  in  face  of  it  still  retain  her  faith  ? 
There  were  moments  when  my  mother  restrained  with 
difficulty  her  desire  to  rise  and  explain. 

Between  the  acts  Barbara  would  whisper  to  her  that  she 
was  not  to  mind,  because  it  was  only  a  play,  and  that 
everything  would  be  sure  to  come  right  in  the  end. 

"I  know,  my  dear,"  my  mother  would  answer,  laughing, 
"it  is  very  foolish  of  me ;  I  forget.  Paul,  when  you  see 
me  getting  excited,  you  must  remind  me." 

But  of  what  use  was  I  in  such  case !  I,  who  only  by 
holding  on  to  the  arms  of  my  seat  could  keep  myself  from 
swarming  down  on  to  the  stage  to  fling  myself  between 
this  noble  damsel  and  her  persecutor — this  fair-haired, 
creamy  angel  in  whose  presence  for  the  time  being  I  had 
forgotten  even  Barbara. 

The  end  came  at  last.  The  uncle  from  Australia  was 
not  dead.  The  villain — ^bungler  as  well  as  knave — had 
killed  the  wrong  man,  somebody  of  no  importance  what- 
ever. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  comic  man  himself  was  the 
uncle  from  Australia — had  been  so  all  along.  My  mother 
had  had  a  suspicion  of  this  from  the  very  first.  She  told 
us  so  three  times,  to  make  up,  I  suppose,  for  not  having 
mentioned  it  before.  How  we  cheered  and  laughed,  in 
spite  of  the  tears  in  our  eyes. 

By  pure  accident  it  happened  to  be  the  first  night  of  the 
piece,  and  the  author,  in  response  to  much  shouting  and 
whistHng,  came  before  the  curtain.  He  was  fat  and 
looked  commonplace ;  but  I  deemed  him  a  genius,  and  my 
mother  said  he  had  a  good  face,  and  waved  her  handker- 
chief wildly ;  while  my  father  shouted  "Bravo !"  long  after 
everybody  else  had  finished ;  and  people  round  about  mut- 
tered "packed  house,"  which  I  didn't  understand  at  the 
time,  but  came  to  later. 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      143 

And  stranger  still,  it  happened  to  be  before  that  very 
same  curtain  that  many  years  later  I  myself  stepped  forth 
to  make  my  first  bow  as  a  playwright.  I  saw  the  house 
but  dimly,  for  on  such  occasion  one's  vision  is  apt  to  be 
clouded.  All  that  I  saw  clearly  was  in  the  front  row  of 
the  second  circle — a  sweet  face  laughing  though  the  tears 
were  in  her  eyes;  and  she  waved  to  me  a  handker- 
chief. And  on  one  side  of  her  stood  a  gallant  gentleman 
with  merry  eyes  who  shouted  "Bravo !"  and  on  the  other 
a  dreamy-looking  lad ;  but  he  appeared  disappointed,  hav- 
ing expected  better  work  from  me.  And  the  fourth  face 
I  could  not  see,  for  it  was  turned  away  from  me. 

Barbara,  determined  on  completeness,  insisted  upon 
supper.  In  those  days  respectability  fed  at  home ;  but  one 
resort  possible  there  was,  an  eating-house  with  some  pre- 
tence to  gaiety  behind  St.  Clement  Danes,  and  to  that  she 
led  us.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  room,  divided  into  wooden 
compartments,  after  the  old  coffee-house  plan,  a  gangway 
down  the  centre.  Now  we  should  call  it  a  dismal  hole, 
and  closing  the  door  hasten  away.  But  to  Adam,  Eve  in 
her  Sunday  fig-leaves  was  a  stylishly  dressed  woman ;  and 
to  my  eyes,  with  its  gilded  mirrors  and  its  flaring  gas,  the 
place  seemed  a  palace. 

Barbara  ordered  oysters,  a  fish  that  familiarity  with  its 
empty  shell  had  made  me  curious  concerning.  Truly  no 
spot  on  the  globe  is  so  rich  in  oyster  shells  as  the  East  End 
of  London.  A  stranger  might  be  led  to  the  impression 
(erroneous)  that  the  customary  lunch  of  the  East  End 
labourer  consists  of  oysters.  How  they  collect  there  in 
such  quantities  is  a  mystery,  though  Washburn,  to  whom 
I  once  presented  the  problem,  found  no  difficulty  in  solv- 
ing it  to  his  own  satisfaction :  *'To  the  rich  man  the  oyster ; 
to  the  poor  man  the  shell ;  thus  are  the  Creator's  gifts  di- 
vided among  all  His  creatures;  none  being  sent  empty 
away."  For  drink  the  others  had  stout  and  I  had  ginger 
beer.  The  waiter,  who  called  me  "Sir,"  advised  against 
this  mixture;  but  among  us  all  the  dominating  sentiment 


144  P^^l  Kelver 

by  this  time  was  that  nothing  really  mattered  very  much. 
Afterwards  my  father  called  for  a  cigar  and  boldly 
lighted  it,  though  my  mother  looked  anxious ;  and  fortu- 
nately perhaps  it  would  not  draw.  And  then  it  came  out 
that  he  himself  had  once  written  a  play. 

''You  never  told  me  of  that,"  complained  my  mother. 

"It  was  a  long  while  ago,"  replied  my  father ;  "nothing 
came  of  it." 

"It  might  have  been  a  success,"  said  my  mother;  "you 
always  had  a  gift  for  writing." 

"I  must  look  it  over  again,"  said  my  father ;  "I  had  quite 
forgotten  it.     I  have  an  impression  it  wasn't  at  all  bad." 

"It  can  be  of  much  help,"  said  my  mother,  "a  good  play. 
It  makes  one  think." 

We  put  Barbara  into  a  cab  and  rode  home  ourselves  in- 
side a  'bus.  My  mother  was  tired,  so  my  father  slipped 
his  arm  round  her,  telling  her  to  lean  against  him,  and 
soon  she  fell  asleep  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  A 
coarse-looking  wench  sat  opposite,  her  man's  arm  round 
her  likewise,  and  she  also  fell  asleep,  her  powdered  face 
against  his  coat. 

"They  can  do  with  a  bit  of  nursing,  can't  they?"  said 
the  man  with  a  grin  to  the  conductor. 

"Ah,  they're  just  kids,"  agreed  the  conductor,  sympa- 
thetically, "that's  what  they  are,  all  of  'em,  just  kids." 

So  the  day  ended.  But  oh,  the  emptiness  of  the  mor- 
row !  Life  without  a  crime,  without  a  single  noble  senti- 
ment to  brighten  it ! — no  comic  uncles,  no  creamy  angels ! 
Oh,  the  barrenness  and  dreariness  of  life!  Even  my 
mother  at  moments  was  quite  irritable. 

We  were  much  together  again,  my  father  and  I,  about 
this  time.  Often,  making  my  way  from  school  into  the 
City,  I  would  walk  home  with  him,  he  leaning  on  each  oc- 
casion a  little  heavier  upon  my  arm.  To  this  day  I  can 
always  meet  and  walk  with  him  down  the  Commercial 
Road.  And  on  Saturday  afternoons,  crossing  the  river  to 
Greenwich,  we  would  climb  the  hill  and  sit  there  talking, 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      145 

or  sometimes  merely  thinking  together,  watching  the  dim 
vast  city  so  strangely  still  and  silent  at  our  feet. 

At  first  I  did  not  grasp  the  fact  that  he  was  dying.  The 
"year  to  two"  of  life  that  Washburn  had  allowed  to  him 
had  somehow  become  converted  in  my  mind  to  vague 
years,  a  fate  with  no  immediate  meaning;  the  meanwhile 
he  himself  appeared  to  grow  from  day  to  day  in  buoyancy. 
How  could  I  know  it  was  his  great  heart  rising  to  his 
need. 

The  comprehension  came  to  me  suddenly.  It  was  one 
afternoon  in  early  spring.  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  City 
to  meet  him.  The  Holborn  Viaduct  was  then  in  building, 
and  the  traffic  round  about  was  in  consequence  always 
much  disorganised.  The  'bus  on  which  I  was  riding  be- 
came entangled  in  a  block  at  the  corner  of  Snow  Hill,  and 
for  ten  minutes  we  had  been  merely  crawling,  one  joint  of 
a  long,  sinuous  serpent  moving  by  short,  painful  jerks.  It 
came  to  me  while  I  was  sitting  there  with  a  sharp  spasm 
of  physical  pain.  I  jumped  from  the  'bus  and  began  to 
run,  and  the  terror  and  the  hurt  of  it  grew  with  every  step. 
I  ran  as  if  I  feared  he  might  be  dead  before  I  could  reach 
the  office.  He  was  waiting  for  me  with  a  smile  as  usual, 
and  I  flung  myself  sobbing  into  his  arms. 

I  think  he  understood,  though  I  could  explain  nothing, 
but  that  I  had  had  a  fear  something  had  happened  to  him, 
for  from  that  time  forward  he  dropped  all  reserve  with 
me,  and  talked  openly  of  our  approaching  parting. 

*Tt  might  have  come  to  us  earlier,  my  dear  boy,"  he 
would  say  with  his  arm  round  me,  "or  it  might  have  been 
a  little  later.  A  year  or  so  one  way  or  the  other,  what 
does  it  matter?  And  it  is  only  for  a  little  while,  Paul. 
We  shall  meet  again." 

But  I  could  not  answer  him,  for  clutch  them  to  me  as 
I  would,  all  my  beliefs — the  beHefs  in  which  I  had  been 
bred,  the  beliefs  that  until  then  I  had  never  doubted,  in 
that  hour  of  their  first  trial,  were  falling  from  me.  I 
could  not  even  pray.     If  I  could  have  prayed  for  any- 


146  Paul  Kelver 

thing,  it  would  have  been  for  my  father's  life.  But  if 
prayer  were  all  powerful,  as  they  said,  would  our  loved 
ones  ever  die?  Man  has  not  faith  enough,  they  would 
explain ;  if  he  had  there  would  be  no  parting.  So  the 
Lord  jests  with  His  creatures,  offering  with  the  one  hand 
to  snatch  back  with  the  other.  I  flung  the  mockery  from 
me.  There  was  no  firm  foothold  anywhere.  What  were 
all  the  religions  of  the  word  but  narcotics  with  which  Hu- 
manity seeks  to  dull  its  pain,  drugs  in  which  it  drowns 
its  terrors,  faith  but  a  bubble  that  death  pricks. 

I  do  not  mean  my  thoughts  took  this  form.  I  was 
little  more  than  a  lad,  and  to  the  young  all  thought  is 
dumb,  speaking  only  with  a  cry.  But  they  were  there, 
vague,  inarticulate.  Thoughts  do  not  come  to  us  as  we 
grow  older.  They  are  with  us  all  our  lives.  We  learn 
their  language,  that  is  all. 

One  fair  still  evening  it  burst  from  me.  We  had  lin- 
gered in  the  Park  longer  than  usual,  slowly  pacing  the 
broad  avenue  leading  from  the  Observatory  to  the  Heath. 
I  poured  forth  all  my  doubts  and  fears — that  he  was  leav- 
ing me  for  ever,  that  I  should  never  see  him  again,  I  could 
not  believe.     What  could  I  do  to  believe  ? 

"I  am  glad  you  have  spoken,  Paul,"  he  said,  "it  would 
have  been  sad  had  we  parted  not  understanding  each 
other.  It  has  been  my  fault.  I  did  not  know  you  had 
these  doubts.  They  come  to  all  of  us  sooner  or  later.  But 
we  hide  them  from  one  another.     It  is  foolish." 

"But  tell  me,"  I  cried,  "what  can  I  do?  How  can  I 
make  myself  believe  ?" 

"My  dear  lad,"  answered  my  father,  "how  can  it  matter 
what  we  believe  or  disbelieve?  It  will  not  alter  God's 
facts.  Would  you  liken  Him  to  some  irritable  school- 
master, angry  because  you  cannot  understand  him?" 

"What  do  you  believe,"  I  asked,  "father,  really  I 
mean." 

The  night  had  fallen.  My  father  put  his  arm  round 
me  and  drew  me  to  him. 


How  the  Man  in  Grey  Made  Ready      147 

"That  we  are  God's  children,  little  brother,"  he  an- 
swered, "that  what  He  wills  for  us  is  best.  It  may  be  life, 
it  may  be  sleep;  it  will  be  best.  I  cannot  think  that 
He  will  let  us  die:  that  were  to  think  of  Him  as  with- 
out purpose.  But  His  uses  may  not  be  our  desires.  We 
must  trust  Him.  'Though  He  slay  me  yet  will  I  trust  in 
Him.' " 

We  walked  awhile  in  silence  before  my  father  spoke 
again. 

"  'Now  abideth  these  three,  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity' — 
you  remember  the  verse — Faith  in  God's  goodness  to  us, 
Hope  that  our  dreams  may  be  fulfiled.  But  these  con- 
cern but  ourselves — the  greatest  of  all  is  Charity." 

Out  of  the  night-shrouded  human  hive  beneath  our  feet 
shone  here  and  there  a  point  of  light. 

"Be  kind,  that  is  all  it  means,"  continued  my  father. 
"Often  we  do  what  we  think  right,  and  evil  comes  of  it, 
and  out  of  evil  comes  good.  We  cannot  understand — 
maybe  the  old  laws  we  have  misread.  But  the  new  Law, 
that  we  love  one  another — all  creatures  He  has  made ;  that 
is  so  clear.  And  if  it  be  that  we  are  here  together  only  for 
a  little  while,  Paul>  the  future  dark,  how  much  the 
greater  need  have  we  of  one  another." 

I  looked  up  into  my  father's  face,  and  the  peace  that 
shone  from  it  slid  into  my  soul  and  gave  me  strength. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

OF  THE  FASHIONING  OF  PAUL. 

Loves  of  my  youth,  whither  are  ye  vanished?  Tubby 
of  the  golden  locks ;  Langley  of  the  dented  nose ;  Shamus 
stout  of  heart  but  faint  of  limb,  easy  enough  to  "down," 
but  utterly  impossible  to  make  to  cry :  "I  give  you  best ;" 
Neal  the  thin;  and  Dicky,  "dicky  Dick"  the  fat;  Ballett 
of  the  weeping  eye ;  Beau  Bunnie  lord  of  many  ties,  who 
always  fought  in  black  kid  gloves ;  all  ye  others,  ye  whose 
names  I  cannot  recollect,  though  I  well  remember  ye  were 
very  dear  to  me,  whither  are  ye  vanished,  where  haunt 
your  creeping  ghosts  ?  Had  one  told  me  then  there  would 
come  a  day  I  should  never  see  again  your  merry  faces, 
never  hear  3^our  wild,  shrill  whoop  of  greeting,  never  feel 
again  the  warm  clasp  of  your  inky  fingers,  never  fight 
again  nor  quarrel  with  you,  never  hate  you,  never  love 
you,  could  I  then  have  borne  the  thought,  I  wonder  ? 

Once,  methinks,  not  long  ago,  I  saw  you.  Tubby,  you 
with  whom  so  often  I  discovered  the  North  Pole,  probed 
the  problem  of  the  sources  of  the  Nile,  (Have  you  for- 
gotten, Tubby,  our  secret  camping  ground  beside  the 
lonely  waters  of  the  Regent's  Park  canal,  where  discuss- 
ing our  frugal  meal  of  toasted  elephant's  tongue — by  the 
uninitiated  mistakable  for  jumbles — there  would  break 
upon  our  trained  hunters'  ear  the  hungry  lion  or  tiger's 
distant  roar,  mingled  with  the  melancholy,  long-drawn 
growling  of  the  Polar  Bear,  growing  ever  in  volume  and 
impatience  until  half-past  four  precisely;  and  we  would 
snatch  our  rifles,  and  with  stealthy  tread  and  every  sense 
alert  make  our  way  through  the  jungle — until  stopped  by 
the  spiked  fencing  round  the  Zoological  Gardens?)    I  feel 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  149 

sure  it  was  you,  in  spite  of  your  side  whiskers  and  the  grey- 
ness  and  the  thinness  of  your  once  clustering  golden  locks. 
You  were  hurrying  down  Throgmorton  Street  chained  to 
a  small  black  bag.  I  should  have  stopped  you,  but  that  I 
had  no  time  to  spare,  having  to  catch  a  train  at  Liverpool 
Street  and  to  get  shaved  on  the  way.  I  wonder  if  you 
recognised  you :  you  looked  at  me  a  little  hard,  I  thought. 
Gallant,  kindly  hearted  Shamus,  you  who  fought  once  for 
half  an  hour  to  save  a  frog  from  being  skinned ;  they  tell 
me  you  are  now  an  Income  Tax  assessor ;  a  man,  it  is  re- 
ported, with  power  of  disbelief  unusual  among  even  In- 
land Revenue  circles ;  of  little  faith,  lacking  in  the  charity 
that  thinketh  no  evil.  May  Providence  direct  you  to 
other  districts  than  to  mine. 

So  Time,  Nature's  handy-man,  bustles  to  and  fro  about 
the  many  rooms,  making  all  things  tidy,  covers  with  sweet 
earth  the  burnt  volcanoes,  turns  to  use  the  debris  of  the 
ages,  smoothes  again  the  ground  above  the  dead,  heals 
again  the  beech  bark  marred  by  lovers. 

In  the  beginning  I  was  far  from  being  a  favourite  with 
my  schoolmates,  and  this  was  the  first  time  trouble  came 
to  dwell  with  me.  Later,  we  men  and  women  generally 
succeed  in  convincing  ourselves  that  whatever  else  we 
may  have  missed  in  life,  popularity  in  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree we  have  at  all  events  secured,  for  without  it  alto- 
gether few  of  us,  I  think,  would  care  to  face  existence. 
But  where  the  child  suffers  keener  than  the  man  is  in  find- 
ing himself  exposed  to  the  cold  truth  without  the  protect- 
ing clothes  of  self-deception.  My  ostracism  was  painfully 
plain  to  me,  and,  as  was  my  nature,  I  brooded  upon  it  in 
silence. 

**Can  you  run  ?"  asked  of  me  one  day  a  most  important 
personage  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  He  was  head  of 
the  Lower  Fourth,  a  tall  youth  with  a  nose  like  a  beak, 
and  the  manner  of  one  born  to  authority.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  draper  in  the  Edgware  Road,  and  his  father  fail- 
ing, he  had  to  be  content  for  a  niche  in  life  with  a  lower 


150  Paul  Kelver 

clerkship  in  the  Civil  Service.  But  to  us  youngsters  he 
always  appeared  a  Duke  of  Wellington  in  embryo,  and 
under  other  circumstances  might,  perhaps,  have  become 
one. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  my  one 
accomplishment,  and  rumour  of  it  maybe  had  reached  him. 

"Run  round  the  playground  twice  at  your  fastest,"  he 
commanded ;  "let  me  see  you." 

I  clinched  my  fists  and  charged  off.  How  grateful  I 
was  to  him  for  having  spoken  to  me,  the  outcast  of  the 
class,  thus  publicly,  I  could  only  show  by  my  exertions 
to  please  him.  When  I  drew  up  before  him  I  was  panting 
hard,  but  I  could  see  that  he  was  satisfied. 

"Why  don't  the  fellows  like  you?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

If  only  I  could  have  stepped  out  of  my  shyness,  spoken 
my  real  thoughts !  "O  Lord  of  the  Lower  Fourth !  You 
upon  whom  success — the  only  success  in  life  worth  having 
— has  fallen  as  from  the  laps  of  the  gods !  You  to  whom 
all  Lower  Fourth  hearts  turn!  tell  me  the  secret  of 
this  popularity.  How  may  I  acquire  it?  No  price  can 
be  too  great  for  me  to  pay  for  it.  Vain  little  egoist  that 
I  am,  it  is  the  sum  of  my  desires,  and  will  be  till  the  long 
years  have  taught  me  wisdom.  The  want  of  it  embitters 
all  my  days.  Why  does  silence  fall  upon  their  chattering 
groups  when  I  draw  near?  Why  do  they  drive  me  from 
their  games  ?  What  is  it  shuts  me  out  from  them,  repels 
them  from  me?  I  creep  into  the  corners  and  shed  scald- 
ing tears  of  shame.  I  watch  with  envious  eyes  and  ears 
all  you  to  whom  the  wondrous  gift  is  given.  What  is 
your  secret?  Is  it  Tommy's  swagger?  Then  I  will 
swagger,  too,  with  anxious  heart,  with  mingled  fear  and 
hope.  But  why — why,  seeing  that  in  Tommy  they  ad- 
mire it,  do  they  wait  for  me  with  imitations  of  cock-a- 
doodle-do,  strut  beside  me  mimicking  a  pouter  pigeon? 
Is  it  Dicky's  playfulness? — Dicky,  who  runs  away  with 
their  balls,  snatches  their  caps  from  off  their  heads, 
springs  upon  their  backs  when  they  are  least  expecting  it? 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  151 

Why  should  Dicky's  reward  be  laughter,  and  mine  a 
bloody  nose  and  a  widened,  deepened  circle  of  dislike  ?  I 
am  no  heavier  than  Dicky;  if  anything  a  pound  or  two 
lighter.  Is  it  Billy's  friendliness?  I  too  would  fling  my 
arms  about  their  necks ;  but  from  me  they  angrily  wrench 
themselves  free.  Is  indifference  the  best  plan?  I  walk 
apart  with  step  I  try  so  hard  to  render  careless ;  but  none 
follows,  no  little  friendly  arm  is  slipped  through  mine. 
Should  one  seek  to  win  one's  way  by  kind  offices  ?  Ah,  if 
one  could !  How  I  would  fag  for  them.  I  could  do  their 
sums  for  them — I  am  good  at  sums — write  their  imposi- 
tions for  them,  gladly  take  upon  myself  their  punishments, 
would  they  but  return  my  service  with  a  little  love  and — 
more  important  still — a  little  admiration." 

But  all  I  could  find  to  say  was,  sulkily:  "They  do 
like  me,  some  of  them."  I  dared  not,  aloud,  acknowledge 
the  truth. 

"Don't  tell  lies,"  he  answered;  "you  know  they  don't — 
none  of  them."     And  I  hung  my  head. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  continued  in  his  lordly 
way;  "I'll  give  you  a  chance.  We're  starting  hare  and 
hounds  next  Saturday;  you  can  be  a  hare.  You  needn't 
tell  anybody.  Just  turn  up  on  Saturday  and  I'll  see  to  it. 
Mind,  you'll  have  to  run  like  the  devil." 

He  walked  away  without  waiting  for  my  answer,  leav- 
ing me  to  meet  Joy  running  towards  me  with  outstretched 
hands.  The  great  moment  comes  to  all  of  us ;  to  the  poli- 
tician, when  the  Party  whip  slips  from  confabulation 
with  the  Front  Bench  to  congratulate  him,  smiling,  on  his 
really  admirable  little  speech;  to  the  youthful  dramatist, 
reading  in  his  bed-sitting-room  the  managerial  note  ask- 
ing him  to  call  that  morning  at  eleven ;  to  the  subaltern, 
beckoned  to  the  stirrup  of  his  chief — the  moment  when 
the  sun  breaks  through  the  morning  mists,  and  the  world 
lies  stretched  before  us,  our  way  clear. 

Obeying  orders,  I  gave  no  hint  in  school  of  the  great 
fortune  that  had  come  to  me;  but  hurrying  home,  I  ex- 


152  Paul  Kelver 

ploded  in  the  passage  before  the  front  door  could  be 
closed  behind  me. 

"I  am  to  be  a  hare  because  I  run  so  fast.  Anybody  can 
be  a  hound,  but  there's  only  two  hares,  and  they  all  want 
me.  And  can  I  have  a  jersey  ?  We  begin  next  Saturday. 
He  saw  me  run.  I  ran  twice  round  the  playground.  He 
said  I  was  splendid !  Of  course,  it's  a  great  honour  to  be 
a  hare.  We  start  from  Hampstead  Heath.  And  may  I 
have  a  pair  of  shoes?" 

The  jersey  and  the  shoes  my  mother  and  I  purchased 
that  very  day,  for  the  fear  was  upon  me  that  unless  we 
hastened,  the  last  blue  and  white  striped  jersey  in  London 
might  be  sold,  and  the  market  be  empty  of  running  shoes. 
That  evening,  before  getting  into  bed,  I  dressed  myself  in 
full  costume  to  admire  myself  before  the  glass ;  and  from 
then  till  the  end  of  the  week,  to  the  terror  of  my  mother, 
I  practised  leaping  over  chairs,  and  my  method  of  de- 
scending stairs  was  perilous  and  roundabout.  But,  as  I 
explained  to  them,  the  credit  of  the  Lower  Fourth  was  at 
stake,  and  banisters  and  legs  equally  of  small  account  as 
compared  with  fame  and  honour ;  and  my  father,  nodding 
his  head,  supported  me  with  manly  argument;  but  my 
mother  added  to  her  prayers  another  line. 

Saturday  came.  The  members  of  the  hunt  were  mostly 
boys  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood ;  so  the  arrangemepit 
was  that  at  half-past  two  we  should  meet  at  the  turnpike 
gate  outside  the  Spaniards.  I  brought  my  lunch  with  me 
and  ate  it  in  Regent's  Park,  and  then  took  the  'bus  to  the 
Heath.  One  by  one  the  others  came  up.  Beyond  mere 
glances,  none  of  them  took  any  notice  of  me.  I  was  wear- 
ing my  ordinary  clothes  over  my  jersey.  I  knew  they 
thought  I  had  come  merely  to  see  them  start,  and  I  hugged 
to  myself  the  dream  of  the  surprise  that  was  in  store  for 
them,  and  of  which  I  should  be  the  hero.  He  came,  one 
of  the  last,  our  leader  and  chief,  and  I  sidled  up  behind 
him  and  waited,  while  he  busied  himself  organising  and 
constructing. 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  153 

"But  we've  only  got  one  hare,"  cried  one  of  them.  ''We 
ought  to  have  two,  you  know,  in  case  one  gets  blown." 

"We've  got  two,"  answered  the  Duke.  "Think  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  about?  Young  Kelver's  going  to  be  the 
other  one." 

Silence  fell  upon  the  meet. 

"Oh,  I  say,  we  don't  want  him,"  at  last  broke  in  a  voice. 
"He's  a  muff." 

"He  can  run,"  explained  the  Duke. 

"Let  him  run  home,"  came  another  voice,  which  was 
greeted  with  laughter. 

"You'll  run  home  in  a  minute  yourself,"  threatened  the 
Duke,  "if  I  have  any  of  your  cheek.  Who's  captain  here 
— you  or  me  ?     Now,  young  'un,  are  you  ready  ?" 

I  had  commenced  unbuttoning  my  jacket,  but  my  hands 
fell  to  my  side.  "I  don't  want  to  come,"  I  answered,  "if 
they  don't  want  me." 

"He'll  get  his  feet  wet,"  suggested  the  boy  who  had 
spoken  first.    "Don't  spoil  him,  he's  his  mother's  pet." 

"Are  you  coming  or  are  you  not?"  shouted  the  Duke, 
seeing  me  still  motionless.  But  the  tears  were  coming 
into  my  eyes  and  would  not  go  back.  I  turned  my  face 
away  without  speaking. 

"All  right,  stop  then,"  cried  the  Duke,  who,  like  all  au- 
thoritative people,  was  impatient  above  all  things  of  hesi- 
tation. "Here,  Keefe,  you  take  the  bag  and  be  off.  It'll 
be  dark  before  we  start." 

My  substitute  snatched  eagerly  at  the  chance,  and  away 
went  the  hares,  while  I,  still  keeping  my  face  hid,  moved 
slowly  off. 

"Cry-baby !"  shouted  a  sharp-eyed  youngster. 

"Let  him  alone,"  growled  the  Duke ;  and  I  went  on  to 
where  the  cedars  grew. 

I  heard  them  start  off  a  few  minutes  later  with  a  whoop. 
How  could  I  go  home,  confess  my  disappointment,  my 
shame?  My  father  would  be  expecting  me  with  many 
questions,  my  mother  waiting  for  me  with  hot  water  and 


154  P^^l  Kelver 

blankets.  What  explanation  could  I  give  that  would  not 
betray  my  miserable  secret  ? 

It  was  a  chill,  dismal  afternoon,  the  Heath  deserted,  a 
thin  rain  commencing.  I  slipped  off  my  shirt  and  jacket, 
and  rolling  them  under  my  arm,  trotted  off  alone,  hare 
and  hounds  combined  in  one  small  carcass,  to  chase  my- 
self sadly  by  myself. 

I  see  it  still,  that  pathetically  ridiculous  little  figure,  jog- 
ging doggedly  over  the  dank  fields.  Mile  after  mile  it 
runs,  the  little  idiot;  jumping — sometimes  falling  into  the 
muddy  ditches :  it  seems  anxious  rather  than  otherwise  to 
get  itself  into  a  mess;  scrambling  through  the  dripping 
hedges;  swarming  over  tarry  fence  and  slimy  paling. 
On,  on  it  pants — through  Bishop's  Wood,  by  tangled 
Churchyard  Bottom,  where  now  the  railway  shrieks; 
down  sloppy  lanes,  bordering  Muswell  Hill,  where  now 
stand  rows  of  jerry-built,  prim  villas.  At  intervals  it 
stops  an  instant  to  dab  its  eyes  with  its  dingy  little  rag  of 
a  handkerchief,  to  rearrange  the  bundle  under  its  arm, 
its  chief  anxiety  to  keep  well  out  of  sight  of  chance  wan- 
derers, to  dodge  farmhouses,  to  dart  across  highroads 
when  nobody  is  looking.  And  so  tear-smeared  and  mud- 
bespattered  up  the  long  rise  of  darkening  Crouch  End 
Lane,  where  to-night  the  electric  light  blazes  from  a  hun- 
dred shops,  and  dead  beat  into  the  Seven  Sisters  Road 
station,  there  to  tear  off  its  soaked  jersey;  and  then  home 
to  Poplar,  with  shameless  account  of  the  jolly  afternoon 
that  it  has  spent,  of  the  admiration  and  the  praise  that  it 
has  won. 

You  poor,  pitiful  little  brat!  Popularity?  it  is  a 
shadow.  Turn  your  eyes  towards  it,  and  it  shall  ever 
run  before  you,  escaping  you.  Turn  your  back  upon  it, 
walk  joyously  towards  the  living  sun,  and  it  shall  follow 
you.  Am  I  not  right?  Why,  then,  do  you  look  at  me, 
your  little  face  twisted  into  that  quizzical  grin  ? 

When  one  takes  service  with  Deceit,  one  signs  a  con- 
tract that  one  may  not  break  but  under  penalty.     Maybe 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  155 

it  was  good  for  my  health,  those  lonely  runs ;  but  oh,  they 
were  dreary !  By  a  process  of  argument  not  uncommon 
I  persuaded  myself  that  truth  was  a  matter  of  mere  words, 
that  so  long  as  I  had  actually  gone  over  the  ground  I  de- 
scribed I  was  not  lying.  To  further  satisfy  my  con- 
science, I  bought  a  big  satchel  and  scattered  from  it  torn- 
up  paper  as  I  ran. 

"And  they  never  catch  you  ?"  asked  my  mother. 

"Oh,  no,  never;  they  never  even  get  within  sight  of 
me. 

"Be  careful,  dear,"  would  advise  my  mother;  "don't 
overstrain  yourself."  But  I  could  see  that  she  was  proud 
of  me. 

And  after  awhile  imagination  came  to  my  help,  so  that 
often  I  could  hear  behind  me  the  sound  of  pursuing  feet, 
catch  through  gaps  in  the  trees  a  sight  of  a  merry  host 
upon  my  trail,  and  would  redouble  my  speed. 

Thus,  but  for  Dan,  my  loneliness  would  have  been  un- 
bearable. His  friendship  was  always  there  for  me  to 
creep  to,  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.  To 
this  day  one  may  always  know  Dan's  politics :  they  are 
those  of  the  Party  out  of  power.  Always  without  ques- 
tion one  may  know  the  cause  that  he  will  champion,  the 
unpopular  cause ;  the  man  he  will  defend,  the  man  who  is 
down. 

"You  are  such  an  un-understandable  chap,"  complained 
a  fellow  Clubman  to  him  once  in  my  hearing.  "I  some- 
times ask  myself  if  you  have  any  opinions  at  all." 

"I  hate  a  crowd,"  was  Dan's  only  confession  of  faith. 

He  never  claimed  anything  from  me  in  return  for  his 
affection;  he  was  there  for  me  to  hold  to  when  I  wanted 
him.  When,  baffled  in  all  my  attempts  to  win  the  affec- 
tions of  others,  I  returned  to  him  for  comfort,  he  gave  it 
me,  without  even  relieving  himself  of  friendly  advice. 
When  at  length  childish  success  came  to  me  and  I  needed 
him  less,  he  was  neither  hurt  nor  surprised.  Other  peo- 
ple— their  thoughts,  their  actions,  even  when  these  con- 


156  Paul  Kelver 

cerned  himself — never  troubled  him.  He  loved  to  bestow, 
but  as  to  response  was  strangely  indifferent;  indeed,  if 
anything,  it  bored  him.  His  nature  appeared  to  be  that 
of  the  fountain,  which  fulfils  itself  by  giving,  but  is  un- 
able to  receive. 

My  popularity  came  to  me  unexpectedly  after  I  had 
given  up  hoping  for  it;  surprising  me,  annoying  me. 
Gradually  it  dawned  upon  me  that  my  company  was  being 
sought. 

"Come  along,  Kelver,"  would  say  the  spokesman  of  one 
group;  "we're  going  part  of  your  way  home.  You  can 
walk  with  us." 

Maybe  I  would  go  with  them,  but  more  often,  before  we 
reached  the  gate,  the  delight  of  my  society  would  be 
claimed  by  a  rival  troop. 

"He's  coming  with  us  this  afternoon.     He  promised." 

"No,  he  didn't." 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"Well,  he  ain't,  anyhow.     See?" 

"Oh,  isn't  he?     Who  says  he  isn't?" 

"I  do." 

"Punch  his  head,  Dick!" 

"Yes,  you  do,  Jimmy  Blake,  and  I'll  punch  yours. 
Come,  Kelver." 

I  might  have  been  some  Queen  of  Beauty  offered  as 
prize  for  knightly  contest.  Indeed,  more  than  once  the 
argument  concluded  thus  primitively,  I  being  carried  off 
in  triumph  by  the  victorious  party. 

For  a  period  it  remained  a  mystery  to  me,  until  I  asked 
explanation  of  Norval — we  called  him  "Norval,"  he  being 
one  George  Grampian :  it  was  our  wit.  From  taking  joy 
in  teasing  me,  Norval  had  suddenly  become  one  of  my 
greatest  admirers.  This  by  itself  was  difficult  enough  to 
understand.  He  was  in  the  second  eleven,  and  after  Dan 
the  best  fighter  in  the  lower  school.  If  I  could  under- 
stand Norval's  change  of  attitude  all  would  be  plain  to 
me ;  so  when  next  time,  bounding  upon  me  in  the  cloak- 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  157 

room  and  slipping  his  arm  into  mine,  he  clamoured  for 
my  company  to  Camden  Town,  I  put  the  question  to  him 
bluntly. 

''Why  should  I  walk  home  with  you?  Why  do  you 
want  me?" 

"Because  we  like  you." 

"But  why  do  you  like  me?" 

"Why !  Why,  because  you're  such  a  funny  chap.  You 
say  such  funny  things." 

It  struck  me  like  a  slap  in  the  face.  I  had  thought  to 
reach  popularity  upon  the  ladder  of  heroic  qualities.  In 
all  the  school  books  I  had  read,  Leonard  or  Marmaduke 
(we  had  a  Marmaduke  in  the  Lower  Fifth — they  called 
him  Marmalade:  in  the  school  books  these  disasters  are 
not  contemplated),  won  love  and  admiration  by  reason 
of  integrity  of  character,  nobility  of  sentiment,  goodness 
of  heart,  brilliance  of  intellect;  combined  maybe  with  a 
certain  amount  of  agility,  instinct  in  the  direction  of  bowl- 
ing, or  aptitude  for  jumping;  but  such  only  by  the  way. 
Not  one  of  them  had  ever  said  a  funny  thing,  either  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously. 

"Don't  be  disagreeable,  Kelver.  Come  with  us  and  we 
will  let  you  into  the  team  as  an  extra.  I'll  teach  you  bat- 
ting." 

So  I  was  to  be  their  Fool — I,  dreamer  of  knightly 
dreams,  aspirant  to  hero's  fame !  I  craved  their  wonder ; 
I  had  won  their  laughter.  I  had  prayed  for  popularity; 
it  had  been  granted  to  me — in  this  guise.  Were  the  gods 
still  the  heartless  practical  jokers  poor  Midas  had  found 
them? 

Had  my  vanity  been  less  I  should  have  flung  their  gift 
back  in  their  faces.  But  my  thirst  for  approbation  was 
too  intense.  I  had  to  choose :  Cut  capers  and  be  followed, 
or  walk  in  dignity,  ignored.  I  chose  to  cut  the  capers. 
As  time  wore  on  I  found  myself  striving  to  cut  them 
quicker,  quainter,  thinking  out  funny  stories,  preparing 


158  Paul  Kelver 

ingenuous  impromptus,  twisting  all  ideas  into  odd  expres- 
sion. 

I  had  my  reward.  Before  long  my  company  was  de- 
sired by  all  the  school.  But  I  was  never  content.  I 
would  rather  have  been  the  Captain  of  their  football  club, 
even  his  deputy  Vice;  would  have  given  all  my  meed  of 
laughter  for  stuttering  Jerry's  one  round  of  applause 
when  in  our  match  against  Highbury  he  knocked  up  his 
century,  and  so  won  the  victory  for  us  by  just  three. 

Till  the  end  I  never  quite  abandoned  hope  of  exchang- 
ing my  vine  leaves  for  the  laurels.  I  would  rise  an  hour 
earlier  in  the  morning  to  practise  throwing  at  broomsticks 
set  up  in  waste  places.  At  another  time,  the  sport  coming 
into  temporary  fashion,  I  wearied  body  and  mind  for 
weeks  in  vain  attempts  to  acquire  skill  on  stilts.  That 
even  fat  Tubby  could  out-distance  me  upon  them  sad- 
dened my  life  for  months. 

A  lad  there  was,  a  Sixth  Form  boy,  one  Wakeham  by 
name,  if  I  remember  rightly,  who  greatly  envied  me  my 
gift  of  being  able  to  amuse.  He  was  of  the  age  when  the 
other  sex  begins  to  be  of  importance  to  a  fellow,  and  the 
desire  had  come  to  him  to  be  regarded  as  a  star  of  wit 
among  the  social  circles  of  Gospel  Oak.  Need  I  say  that 
by  nature  he  was  a  ponderously  dull  boy. 

One  afternoon  I  happened  to  be  the  centre  of  a  small 
group  in  the  playground.  I  had  been  holding  forth  and 
they  had  been  laughing.  Whether  I  had  delivered  myself 
of  anything  really  entertaining  or  not  I  cannot  say.  It 
made  no  difference ;  they  had  got  into  the  habit  of  laugh- 
ing when  I  talked.  Sometimes  I  would  say  quite  serious 
things  on  purpose;  they  would  laugh  just  the  same. 
Wakeham  was  among  them,  his  eyes  fixed  on  me,  watch- 
ing me  as  boys  watch  a  conjurer  in  the  hope  of  finding  out 
"how  he  does  it."  Later  in  the  afternoon  he  slipped  his 
arm  through  mine,  and  drew  me  away  into  an  empty  cor- 
ner of  the  ground. 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  159 

"I  say,  Kelver,"  he  broke  out,  the  moment  we  were  be- 
yond hearing,  "you  really  are  funny!" 

It  gave  me  no  pleasure.  If  he  had  told  me  that  he  ad- 
mired my  bowling  I  might  not  have  believed  him,  but 
should  have  loved  him  for  it. 

"So  are  you,"  I  answered  savagely,  "only  you  don't 
know  it." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  repHed.  "Wish  I  was.  I  say,  Kel- 
ver"— he  glanced  round  to  see  that  no  one  was  within 
earshot — "do  you  think  you  could  teach  me  to  be  funny?" 

I  was  about  to  reply  with  conviction  in  the  negative 
when  an  idea  occurred  to  me.  Wakeham  was  famous 
among  us  for  one  thing ;  he  could,  inserting  two  fingers  in 
his  mouth,  produce  a  whistle  capable  of  confusing  dogs  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  off,  and  of  causing  people  near  at  hand 
to  jump  from  six  to  eighteen  inches  into  the  air. 

This  accomplishment  of  his  I  envied  him  as  keenly  as  he 
envied  me  mine.  I  did  not  admire  it ;  I  could  not  see  the 
use  of  it.  Generally  speaking,  it  called  forth  irritation 
rather  than  affection.  A  purple- faced  old  gentleman, 
close  to  whose  ear  he  once  performed,  promptly  cuffed  his 
head  for  it ;  and  for  so  doing  was  commended  by  the  whole 
street  as  a  public  benefactor.  Drivers  of  vehicles  would 
respond  by  flicking  at  him,  occasionally  with  success. 
Even  youth,  from  whom  sympathy  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, appeared  impelled,  if  anything  happened  to  be  at 
all  handy,  to  take  it  up  and  throw  it  at  him.  My  own 
social  circle  would,  I  knew,  regard  it  as  a  vulgar  accom- 
plishment, and  even  Wakeham  himself  dared  not  perform 
it  in  the  hearing  of  his  own  classmates.  That  any  human 
being  should  have  desired  to  acquire  it  seems  incompre- 
hensible. Yet  for  weeks  in  secret  I  had  wrestled  to  pro- 
duce the  hideous  sound.  Why?  For  three  reasons,  so 
far  as  I  can  analyse  this  youngster  of  whom  I  am  writing : 
Firstly,  here  was  a  means  of  attracting  attention;  sec- 
ondly, it  was  something  that  somebody  else  could  do  and 
that  he  couldn't ;  thirdly,  it  was  a  thing  for  which  he  evi- 


i6o  Paul  Kelver 

dently  had  no  natural  aptitude  whatever,  and  therefore 
a  thing  to  acquire  which  his  soul  yearned  the  more.  Had 
a  boy  come  across  his  path,  clever  at  walking  on  his  hands 
with  his  heels  in  the  air.  Master  Paul  Kelver  would  in  all 
probability  have  broken  his  neck  in  attempts  to  copy  and 
excel.  I  make  no  apologies  for  the  brat :  I  merely  present 
him  as  a  study  for  the  amusement  of  a  world  of  wiser 
boys — and  men. 

I  struck  a  bargain  with  young  Wakeham ;  I  undertook 
to  teach  him  to  be  funny  in  return  for  his  teaching  me 
this  costermonger's  whistle. 

Each  of  us  strove  conscientiously  to  impart  knowledge. 
Neither  of  us  succeeded.  Wakeham  tried  hard  to  be 
funny;  I  tried  hard  to  whistle.  He  did  all  I  told  him;  I 
followed  his  instructions  implicitly.  The  result  was  the 
feeblest  of  wit  and  the  feeblest  of  whistles. 

*'Do  you  think  anybody  would  laugh  at  that?"  Wake- 
ham would  pathetically  enquire  at  the  termination  of  his 
supremest  effort.  And  honestly  I  would  have  to  confess 
I  did  not  think  any  living  being  would. 

"How  far  off  do  you  think  any  one  could  hear  that?" 
I  would  demand  anxiously,  on  recovering  sufficient  breath 
to  speak  at  all. 

"Well,  it  would  depend  upon  whether  you  knew  it  was 
coming,"  Wakeham  would  reply  kindly,  not  wishing  to 
discourage  me. 

We  abandoned  the  scheme  by  mutual  consent  at  about 
the  end  of  a  fortnight. 

"I  suppose  it's  something  that  you've  got  to  have  inside 
you,"  I  suggested  to  Wakeham  in  consolation. 

"I  don't  think  the  roof  of  your  mouth  can  be  quite  the 
right  shape  for  it,"  concluded  Wakeham. 

My  success  as  story-teller,  commentator,  critic,  jester, 
revived  my  childish  ambition  towards  authorship.  My 
first  stirrings  in  this  direction  I  cannot  rightly  place.  I 
remember  when  very  small  falling  into  a  sunk  dust-bin — 
a  deep  hole,  rather,  into  which  the  gardener  shot  his  rub- 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  i6i 

bish.  The  fall  twisted  my  ankle  so  that  I  could  not  move ; 
and  the  time  being  evening  and  my  prison  some  distance 
from  the  house,  my  predicament  loomed  large  before  me. 
Yet  one  consolation  remained  with  me :  the  incident  would 
be  of  value  to  me  in  the  autobiography  upon  which  I  was 
then  engaged.  I  can  distinctly  recollect  lying  on  my  back 
among  decaying  leaves  and  broken  glass,  framing  my  ac- 
count. "On  this  day  a  strange  adventure  befell  me.  Walk- 
ing in  the  garden,  all  unheeding,  I  suddenly" — I  did  not 
want  to  add  the  truth — "tumbled  into  a  dust-hole,  six  feet 
square,  that  any  one  but  a  moon  calf  might  have  seen."  I 
puzzled  to  evolve  a  more  dignified  situation.  The  dust-bin 
became  a  cavern,  the  entrance  to  which  had  been  artfully 
concealed;  the  six  or  seven  feet  I  had  really  fallen,  "an 
endless  descent,  terminating  in  a  vast  and  gloomy  cham- 
ber." I  was  divided  between  opposing  desires :  One,  for 
rescue  followed  by  sympathy  and  supper;  the  other,  for 
the  alarming  experience  of  a  night  of  terror  where  I  lay. 
Nature  conquering  Art,  I  yelled ;  and  the  episode  termi- 
nated prosaically  with  a  warm  bath  and  arnica.  But  from 
it  I  judge  that  desire  for  the  woes  and  perils  of  authorship 
was  with  me  somewhat  early. 

Of  my  many  other  dreams  I  would  speak  freely,  dis- 
cussing them  at  length  with  sympathetic  souls,  but  con- 
cerning this  one  ambition  I  was  curiously  reticent.  Only 
to  two — my  mother  and  a  grey-bearded  Stranger — did  I 
ever  breathe  a  word  of  it.  Even  from  my  father  I  kept 
it  a  secret,  close  comrades  in  all  else  though  we  were.  He 
would  have  talked  of  it  much  and  freely,  dragged  it  into 
the  light  of  day ;  and  from  this  I  shrank. 

My  talk  with  the  Stranger  came  about  in  this  wise. 
One  evening  I  had  taken  a  walk  to  Victoria  Park — a 
favourite  haunt  of  mine  in  summer  time.  It  was  a  fair 
and  peaceful  evening,  and  I  fell  a-wandering  there  in 
pleasant  reverie,  until  the  waning  light  hinted  to  me  the 
question  of  time.  I  looked  about  me.  Only  one  human 
being  was  in  sight,  a  man  with  his  back  towards  me, 


1 62  Paul  Kelver 

seated  upon  a  bench  overlooking  the  ornamental  water. 
I  drew  nearer.  He  took  no  notice  of  me,  and  interested 
— though  why,  I  could  not  say — I  seated  myself  beside 
him  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench.  He  was  a  handsome, 
distinguished-looking  man,  with  wonderfully  bright,  clear 
eyes  and  iron-grey  hair  and  beard.  I  might  have  thought 
him  a  sea  captain,  of  whom  many  were  always  to  be  met 
with  in  that  neighbourhood,  but  for  his  hands,  which  were 
crossed  upon  his  stick,  and  which  were  white  and  delicate 
as  a  woman's.  He  turned  his  face  and  glanced  at  me. 
I  fancied  that  his  lips  beneath  the  grey  moustache  smiled ; 
and  instinctively  I  edged  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"Please,  sir,"  I  said,  after  awhile,  ''could  you  tell  me 
the  right  time?" 

''Twenty  minutes  to  eight,"  he  answered,  looking  at  his 
watch.  And  his  voice  drew  me  towards  him  even  more 
than  had  his  beautiful  strong  face.  I  thanked  him,  and 
we  fell  back  into  silence. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  he  turned  and  suddenly  asked 
me. 

"Oh,  only  over  there,"  I  answered,  with  a  wave  of 
my  arm  towards  the  chimney-fringed  horizon  behind  us. 
"I  needn't  be  in  till  half-past  eight.  I  Hke  this  Park  so 
much,"  I  added,  "I  often  come  and  sit  here  of  an  even- 
ing." 

"Why  do  you  like  to  come  and  sit  here?"  he  asked. 
"Tell  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  answered.     "I  think." 

I  marvelled  at  myself.  With  strangers  generally  I  was 
shy  and  silent;  but  the  magic  of  his  bright  eyes  seemed 
to  have  loosened  my  tongue. 

I  told  him  my  name;  that  we  lived  in  a  street  always 
full  of  ugly  sounds,  so  that  a  gentleman  could  not  think, 
not  even  in  the  evening  time,  when  Thought  goes  a- visit- 
ing. 

"Mamma  does  not  like  the  twilight  time,"  I  confided  to 
him.    "It  always  makes  her  cry     But  then  mamma  is— 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  163 

not  very  young,  you  know,  and  has  had  a  deal  of  trouble ; 
and  that  makes  a  difference,  I  suppose." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  mine.  We  were  sitting  nearer 
to  each  other  now.  "God  made  women  weak  to  teach  us 
men  to  be  tender,"  he  said.  "But  you,  Paul,  like  this  'twi- 
light time'  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "very  much.     Don't  you  ?" 

"And  why  do  you  like  it?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,"  I  answered,  "things  come  to  you." 

"What  things  ?" 

"Oh,  fancies,"  I  explained  to  him.  "I  am  going  to  be 
an  author  when  I  grow  up,  and  write  books." 

He  took  my  hand  in  his  and  shook  it  gravely,  and  then 
returned  it  to  me.     "I,  too,  am  a  writer  of  books,"  he  said. 

And  then  I  knew  what  had  drawn  me  to  him. 

So  for  the  first  time  I  understood  the  joy  of  talking 
"shop"  with  a  fellow  craftsman.  I  told  him  my  favourite 
authors — Scott,  and  Dumas,  and  Victor  Hugo ;  and  to  my 
delight  found  they  were  his  also;  he  agreeing  with  me 
that  real  stories  were  the  best,  stories  in  which  people  did 
things. 

"I  used  to  read  silly  stuff  once,"  I  confessed,  "Indian 
tales  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  But  mamma  said 
I'd  never  be  able  to  write  if  I  read  that  rubbish." 

"You  will  find  it  so  all  through  life,  Paul,"  he  replied. 
"The  things  that  are  nice  are  rarely  good  for  us.  And 
what  do  you  read  now?" 

"I  am  reading  Marlowe's  Plays  and  De  Quincey's  Con- 
fessions just  now,"  I  confided  to  him. 

"And  do  you  understand  them?" 

"Fairly  well,"  I  answered.  "Mamma  says  I'll  like  them 
better  as  I  go  on.  I  want  to  learn  to  write  very,  very  well 
indeed,"  I  admitted  to  him ;  "then  I'll  be  able  to  earn  heaps 
of  money." 

He  smiled.  "So  you  don't  believe  in  Art  for  Art's  sake, 
Paul?" 

I  was  puzzled.     "What  does  that  mean?"  I  asked. 


164  Paul  Kelver 

"It  means  in  our  case,  Paul,"  he  answered,  "writing 
books  for  the  pleasure  of  writing  books,  without  thinking 
of  any  reward,  without  desiring  either  money  or  fame." 

It  was  a  new  idea  to  me.  ''Do  many  authors  do  that?" 
I  asked. 

He  laughed  outright  this  time.  It  was  a  delightful 
laugh.  It  rang  through  the  quiet  Park,  awaking  echoes ; 
and  caught  by  it,  I  laughed  with  him, 

''Hush !"  he  said ;  and  he  glanced  round  with  a  whim- 
sical expression  of  fear,  lest  we  might  have  been  over- 
heard. "Between  ourselves,  Paul,"  he  continued,  draw- 
ing me  more  closely  towards  him  and  whispering,  "I  don't 
think  any  of  us  do.  We  talk  about  it.  But  I'll  tell  you 
this,  Paul ;  it  is  a  trade  secret  and  you  must  remember  it : 
No  man  ever  made  money  or  fame  but  by  writing  his 
very  best.  It  may  not  be  as  good  as  somebody  else's 
best,  but  it  is  his  best.     Remember  that,  Paul." 

I  promised  I  would. 

"And  you  must  not  think  merely  of  the  money  and  the 
fame,  Paul,"  he  added  the  next  moment,  speaking  more 
seriously.  "Money  and  fame  are  very  good  things,  and 
only  hypocrites  pretend  to  despise  them.  But  if  you  write 
books  thinking  only  of  money,  you  will  be  disappointed. 
It  is  earned  easier  in  other  ways.  Tell  me,  that  is  not 
your  only  idea?" 

I  pondered.  "Mamma  says  it  is  a  very  noble  calling, 
authorship,"  I  remembered,  "and  that  any  one  ought  to 
be  very  proud  and  glad  to  be  able  to  write  books,  because 
they  give  people  happiness  and  make  them  forget  things ; 
and  that  one  ought  to  be  very  good  if  one  is  going  to  be 
an  author,  so  as  to  be  worthy  to  help  and  teach  others." 

"And  do  you  try  to  be  good,  Paul  ?"  he  enquired. 

"Yes,"  I  answered ;  "but  it's  very  hard  to  be  quite  good 
— until  of  course  you're  grown  up." 

He  smiled,  but  more  to  himself  than  to  me.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "I  suppose  it  is  difficult  to  be  good  until  you  are 
grown  up.    Perhaps  we  shall  all  of  us  be  good  when  we're 


Of  the  Fashioning  of  Paul  165 

quite  grown  up."  Which,  from  a  gentleman  with  a  grey 
beard,  appeared  to  me  a  puzzling  observation. 

"And  what  else  does  mamma  say  about  literature?"  he 
asked.     "Can  you  remember?" 

Again  I  pondered,  and  her  words  came  back  to  me. 
"That  he  who  can  write  a  great  book  is  greater  than  a 
king;  that  the  gift  of  being  able  to  write  is  given  to  any- 
body in  trust;  that  an  author  should  never  forget  he  is 
God's  servant." 

He  sat  for  awhile  without  speaking,  his  chin  resting  on 
his  folded  hands  supported  by  his  gold-topped  cane. 
Then  he  turned  and  laid  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and 
his  clear,  bright  eyes  were  close  to  mine. 

"Your  mother  is  a  wise  lady,  Paul,"  he  said.  "Remem- 
ber her  words  always.  In  later  life  let  them  come  back  to 
you;  they  will  guide  you  better  than  the  chatter  of  the 
Clubs." 

"And  what  modern  authors  do  you  read?"  he  asked 
after  a  silence :  "any  of  them — Thackeray,  Bulwer  Lytton, 
Dickens?" 

"I  have  read  'The  Last  of  the  Barons,' "  I  told  him ;  "I 
like  that.  And  I've  been  to  Barnet  and  seen  the  church. 
And  some  of  Mr.  Dickens'." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Dickens?"  he  asked. 
But  he  did  not  seem  very  interested  in  the  subject.  He 
had  picked  up  a  few  small  stones,  and  was  throwing  them 
carefully  into  the  water. 

"I  like  him  very  much,"  I  answered;  "he  makes  you 
laugh." 

"Not  always?"  he  asked.  He  stopped  his  stone-throw- 
ing, and  turned  sharply  towards  me. 

"Oh,  no,  not  always,"  I  admitted ;  "but  I  like  the  funny 
bits  best.     I  like  so  much  where  Mr.  Pickwick " 

"Oh,  damn  Mr.  Pickwick !"  he  said. 

"Don't  you  Hke  him  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  like  him  well  enough,  or  used  to,"  he  re- 
plied; "I'm  a  bit  tired  of  him,  that's  ah.  Does  your 
mamma  Hke  Mr. — Mr.  Dickens?" 


1 66  Paul  Kelver 

"Not  the  funny  parts,"  I  explained  to  him.  "She 
thinks  he  is  occasionally " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted,  rather  irritably,  I  thought; 
"a  trifle  vulgar." 

It  surprised  me  that  he  should  have  guessed  her  exact 
words.  "I  don't  think  mamma  has  much  sense  of 
humour,"  I  explained  to  him.  "Sometimes  she  doesn't 
even  see  papa's  jokes." 

At  that  he  laughed  again.  "But  she  likes  the  other 
parts?"  he  enquired,  "the  parts  where  Mr.  Dickens  isn't 
— vulgar  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "She  says  he  can  be  so  beauti- 
ful and  tender,  when  he  likes." 

Twilight  was  deepening.  It  occurred  to  me  to  enquire 
of  him  again  the  time. 

"Just  over  the  quarter,"  he  answered,  looking  at  his 
watch. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  I  said.     "I  must  go  now." 

"So  am  I  sorry,  Paul,"  he  answered.  "Perhaps  we 
shall  meet  again.  Good-bye."  Then  as  our  hands 
touched :  "You  have  never  asked  me  my  name,  Paul,"  he 
reminded  me. 

"Oh,  haven't  I?"  I  answered. 

"No,  Paul,"  he  repHed,  "and  that  makes  me  think  of 
your  future  with  hope.  You  are  an  egotist,  Paul;  and 
that  is  the  beginning  of  all  art." 

And  after  that  he  would  not  tell  me  his  name.  "Per- 
haps next  time  we  meet,"  he  said.  "Good-bye,  Paul. 
Good  luck  to  you!" 

So  I  went  my  way.  Where  the  path  winds  out  of  sight 
I  turned.  He  was  still  seated  upon  the  bench,  but  his 
face  was  towards  me,  and  he  waved  his  hand  to  me.  I 
answered  with  a  wave  of  mine.  And  then  the  intervening 
boughs  and  bushes  gradually  closed  in  around  me.  And 
across  the  rising  mist  there  rose  the  hoarse,  harsh  cry: 
"All  out!    All  out!" 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN   WHICH   PAUL  IS   SHIPWRECKED,   AND   CAST   fNTO  DEEP 

WATERS. 

My  father  died,  curiously  enough,  on  the  morning  of  his 
birthday.  We  had  not  expected  the  end  to  arrive  for 
some  time,  and  at  first  did  not  know  that  it  had  come. 

''I  have  left  him  sleeping,"  said  my  mother,  who  had 
slipped  out  very  quietly  in  her  dressing-gown.  **Wash- 
burn  gave  him  a  draught  last  night.  We  won't  disturb 
him." 

So  we  sat  round  the  breakfast  table,  speaking  in  low 
tones,  for  the  house  was  small  and  flimsy,  all  sound  easily 
heard  through  its  thin  partitions.  Afterwards  my  mother 
crept  upstairs,  I  following,  and  cautiously  opened  the  door 
a  little  way. 

The  blinds  were  still  down,  and  the  room  dark.  It 
seemed  a  long  time  that  my  mother  stood  there  listening, 
her  ear  against  the  jar.  The  first  costermonger — a  girl's 
voice,  it  sounded — ^passed,  crying  shrilly :  "Watercreases, 
fine  fresh  watercreases  with  your  breakfast — a'penny  a 
bundle  watercreases ;"  and  further  off  a  hoarse  youth  was 
wailing :  "Mee-ilk-mee-ilk-oi." 

Inch  by  inch  my  mother  opened  the  door  wider  and 
we  stole  in.  He  was  lying  with  his  eyes  still  closed,  the 
lips  just  slightly  parted.  I  had  never  seen  death  before, 
and  could  not  realise  it.  All  that  I  could  see  was  that  he 
looked  even  younger  than  I  had  ever  seen  him  look  before. 
By  slow  degrees  only,  it  came  home  to  me,  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  gone  away  from  us.  For  days — for  weeks, 
I  would  hear  his  step  behind  me  in  the  street,  his  voice 
calling  to  me,  see  his  face  among  the  crowds,  and  hasten- 


1 68  Paul  Kelver 

ing  to  meet  him,  stand  bewildered  because  it  had  mysteri- 
ously disappeared.    But  at  first  I  felt  no  pain  whatever. 

To  my  mother  it  was  but  a  short  parting.  Into  her 
placid  faith  had  never  fallen  fear  nor  doubt.  He  was  wait- 
ing for  her.  In  God's  good  time  they  would  meet  again. 
What  need  of  sorrow !  Without  him  the  days  passed 
slowly :  the  house  must  ever  be  a  little  dull  when  the  good 
man's  away.  But  that  was  all.  So  my  mother  would 
speak  of  him  always — of  his  dear,  kind  ways,  of  his  odd- 
ities and  follies  we  loved  so  to  recall,  not  through  tears, 
but  smiles,  thinking  of  him  not  as  of  one  belonging  to  the 
past,  but  as  of  one  beckoning  to  her  from  the  future. 

We  lived  on  still  in  the  old  house  though  ever  planning 
to  move,  for  the  great  brick  monster  had  crept  closer 
round  about  us  year  by  year,  devouring  in  his  progress 
all  things  fair.  Field  and  garden,  tree  and  cottage,  time- 
mellowed  house  suggesting  story,  kind  hedgerow  hiding 
hideousness  beyond — the  few  spots  yet  in  that  doomed 
land  lingering  to  remind  one  of  the  sunshine,  one  by  one 
had  he  scrunched  them  between  his  ugly  teeth.  A  world 
apart,  this  east  end  of  London,  this  ghetto  of  the  poor  for 
ever  growing,  dreariness  added  year  by  year  to  dreariness, 
hopelessness  stretching  ever  farther  its  long,  shrivelled 
arms,  these  endless  rows  of  reeking  cells  where  London 
herds  her  slaves.  Often  of  a  misty  afternoon  when  we 
knew  that  without  this  city  of  the  dead  life  was  stirring  in 
the  sunshine,  we  would  fare  forth  to  house-hunt  in  pleas- 
ant suburbs,  now  themselves  added  to  the  weary  catacomb 
of  narrow  streets — ^to  Highgate,  then  a  tiny  town  con- 
nected by  a  coach  with  leafy  Holloway;  to  Hampstead 
with  its  rows  of  ancient  red-brick  houses,  from  whose 
wind-blown  heath  one  saw  beyond  the  woods  and  farms, 
far  London's  domes  and  spires,  to  Wood  Green  among  the 
pastures,  where  smock-coated  labourers  discussed  their 
politics  and  ale  beneath  wide-spreading  elms ;  to  Hornsey, 
then  a  village  consisting  of  an  ivy-covered  church  and  one 
grass-bordered  way.    But  though  we  often  saw  "the  very 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       169 

thing  for  us"  and  would  discuss  its  possibilities  from  every 
point  of  view  and  find  them  good,  we  yet  delayed. 

"We  must  think  it  over,"  would  say  my  mother ;  "there 
is  no  hurry;  for  some  reasons  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave 
Poplar." 

"For  what  reasons,  mother?" 

"Oh,  well,  no  particular  reason,  Paul.  Only  we  have 
lived  there  so  long,  you  know.  It  will  be  a  wrench  leav- 
ing the  old  house." 

To  the  making  of  man  go  all  things,  even  to  the  in- 
stincts of  the  clinging  vine.  We  fling  our  tendrils  round 
what  is  the  nearest  castle-keep  or  pig-stye  wall,  rain  and 
sunshine  fastening  them  but  firmer.  Dying  Sir  Walter 
Scott — do  you  remember? — hastening  home  from  Italy, 
fearful  lest  he  might  not  be  in  time  to  breathe  again  the 
damp  mists  of  the  barren  hills.  An  ancient  dame  I  knew, 
they  had  carried  her  from  her  attic  in  slumland  that  she 
might  be  fanned  by  the  sea  breezes,  and  the  poor  old  soul 
lay  pining  for  what  she  called  her  "home."  Wife,  mother, 
widow,  she  had  lived  there  till  the  alley's  reek  smelt  good 
to  her  nostrils,  till  its  riot  was  the  voices  of  her  people. 
Who  shall  understand  us  save  He  who  fashioned  us  ? 

So  the  old  house  held  us  to  its  dismal  bosom;  and  not 
until  within  its  homely  but  unlovely  arms,  first  my  aunt, 
and  later  on  my  mother  had  died,  and  I  had  said  good-bye 
to  Amy,  crying  in  the  midst  of  littered  emptiness,  did  I 
leave  it. 

My  aunt  died  as  she  had  lived,  grumbling. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  me,  all  of  you!"  she 
said,  dropping  for  the  first  and  last  time  I  can  recol- 
lect into  the  retort  direct ;  "and  I  can't  say  I  shall  be  very 
sorry  to  go  myself.     It  hasn't  been  my  idea  of  life." 

Poor  old  lady !  That  was  only  a  couple  of  weeks  be- 
fore the  end.  I  do  not  suppose  she  guessed  it  was  so  cer- 
tain or  perhaps  she  might  have  been  more  sentimental. 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  said  my  mother,  "you're  not  going 
to  die !'' 


170  Paul  Kelver 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  Hke  an  idiot/*  retorted  my 
aunt,  "I've  got  to  do  it  some  time.  Why  not  now,  when 
everything's  all  ready  for  it.  It  isn't  as  if  I  was  enjoying 
myself." 

"I  am  sure  we  do  all  we  can  for  you,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  know  you  do,"  replied  my  aunt.  "I'm  a  burden  to 
you.     I  always  have  been." 

"Not  a  burden,"  corrected  my  mother. 

"What  does  the  woman  call  it  then,"  snapped  back  my 
aunt.  "Does  she  reckon  I've  been  a  sunbeam  in  the  house? 
I've  been  a  trial  to  everybody.  That's  what  I  was  born 
for ;  it's  my  metier." 

My  mother  put  her  arms  about  the  poor  old  soul  and 
kissed  her.     "We  should  miss  you  very  much,"  she  said. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  they  all  will!"  answered  my  aunt. 
"It's  the  only  thing  I've  got  to  leave  'em,  worth  having." 

My  mother  laughed. 

"Maybe  it's  been  a  good  thing  for  you,  Maggie," 
grumbled  my  aunt;  "if  it  wasn't  for  cantankerous,  dis- 
agreeable people  like  me,  gentle,  patient  people  like  you 
wouldn't  get  any  practice.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I've  been  a 
blessing  to  you  in  disguise." 

I  cannot  honestly  say  we  ever  wished  her  back ;  though 
we  certainly  did  miss  her — missed  many  a  joke  at  her 
oddities,  many  a  laugh  at  her  cornery  ways.  It  takes  all 
sorts,  as  the  saying  goes,  to  make  a  world.  Possibly 
enough  if  only  we  perfect  folk  were  left  in  it  we  would 
find  it  uncomfortably  monotonous. 

As  for  Amy,  I  believe  she  really  regretted  her. 

"One  never  knows  what's  good  for  one  till  one's  lost 
it,"  sighed  Amy. 

"I'm  glad  to  think  you  liked  her,"  said  my  mother. 

"You  see,  mum,"  explained  Amy,  "I  was  one  of  a  large 
family;  and  a  bit  of  a  row  now  and  again  cheers  one  up, 
I  always  think.  I'll  be  losing  the  power  of  my  tongue  if 
something  doesn't  come  along  soon." 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       171 

"Well,  you  are  going  to  be  married  in  a  few  weeks 
now,"  my  mother  reminded  her. 

But  Amy  remained  despondent.  "They're  poor  things, 
the  men,  at  a  few  words,  the  best  of  them,"  she  replied. 
"As  likely  as  not  just  when  you're  getting  interested  you 
turn  round  to  find  that  they've  put  on  their  hat  and  gone 
out." 

My  mother  and  I  were  very  much  alone  after  my  aunt's 
death.  Barbara  had  gone  abroad  to  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  her  education — to  learn  the  tricks  of  the  Nobs' 
trade,  as  old  Hasluck  phrased  it ;  and  I  had  left  school  and 
taken  employment  with  Mr.  Stillwood,  without  salary, 
the  idea  being  that  I  should  study  for  the  law. 

"You  are  in  luck's  way,  my  boy,  in  luck's  way,"  old  Mr. 
Gadley  had  assured  me.  "To  have  commenced  your 
career  in  the  office  of  Stillwood,  Waterhead  and  Royal 
will  be  a  passport  for  you  anywhere.  It  will  stamp  you, 
my  boy." 

Mr.  Stillwood  himself  was  an  extremely  old  and  feeble 
gentleman — so  old  and  feeble  it  seemed  strange  that  he, 
a  wealthy  man,  had  not  long  ago  retired. 

"I  am  always  meaning  to,"  he  explained  to  me  one  day 
soon  after  my  advent  in  his  office.  "When  your  poor 
father  came  to  me  he  told  me  very  frankly  the  sad  fact — 
that  he  had  only  a  few  more  years  to  live.  'Mr.  Kelver,' 
I  answerered  him,  'do  not  let  that  trouble  you,  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  There  are  one  or  two  matters  in  the  office 
I  should  like  to  see  cleared  up,  and  in  these  you  can  help 
me.  When  they  are  completed  I  shall  retire !  Yet,  you 
see,  I  linger  on.  I  am  like  the  old  hackney  coach  horse, 
Mr.  Weller — or  is  it  Mr.  Jingle — tells  us  of ;  if  the  shafts 
were  drawn  away  I  should  probably  collapse.  So  I  jog 
on,  I  jog  on.'  " 

He  had  married  late  in  life  a  common  woman  much 
younger  than  himself,  who  had  brought  to  him  a  horde 
of  needy  and  greedy  relatives,  and  no  doubt,  as  a  refuge 
from  her  noisy  neighbourhood,  the  daily  peace  of  Lom- 


172  Paul  Kelver 

bard  Street  was  welcome  to  him.  We  saw  her  occasion- 
ally. She  was  one  of  those  blustering,  "managing" 
women  who  go  through  life  under  the  impression  that 
making  a  disturbance  is  somehow  ''putting  things  to 
rights."  Ridiculously  ashamed  of  her  origin,  she  sought 
to  hide  it  under  what  her  friends  assured  her  was  the  air 
of  a  duchess,  but  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  resembled 
rather  the  Sunday  manners  of  an  elderly  barmaid.  Mr. 
Gadley  alone  was  not  afraid  of  her ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
kept  her  always  very  much  in  fear  of  him,  often  speaking 
to  her  with  refreshing  candour.  He  had  known  her  in 
the  days  it  was  her  desire  should  be  buried  in  oblivion, 
and  had  always  resented  as  a  personal  insult  her  entry  into 
the  old  established  aristocratic  firm  of  Stillwood  &  Co. 

Her  history  was  peculiar.  Mr.  Stillwood,  when  a  blase 
man  about  town,  verging  on  forty,  had  first  seen  her,  then 
a  fair-haired,  ethereal-looking  child,  in  spite  of  her  dirt, 
playing  in  the  gutter.  To  his  lasting  self-reproach  it  was 
young  Gadley  himself,  accompanying  his  employer  home 
from  Westminster,  who  had  drawn  Mr.  Stillwood's  atten- 
tion to  the  girl  by  boxing  her  ears  for  having,  as  he  passed, 
slapped  his  face  with  a  convenient  sprat.  Stillwood,  act- 
ing on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  had  taken  the  child  by 
the  hand  and  dragged  her,  unwilling,  to  her  father's  place 
of  business — a  small  coal  shed  in  the  Horseferry  Road. 
The  arrangement  he  there  made  amounted  practically  to 
the  purchase  of  the  child.  She  was  sent  abroad  to  school 
and  the  coal  shed  closed.  On  her  return,  ten  years  later, 
a  big,  handsome  young  woman,  he  married  her,  and  learned 
at  leisure  the  truth  of  the  old  saying,  "what's  bred  in  the 
bone  will  come  out  in  the  flesh,"  scrub  it  and  paint  it  and 
hide  it  away  under  fine  clothes  as  you  will. 

Her  constant  complaint  against  her  husband  was  that 
he  was  only  a  solicitor,  a  profession  she  considered  vul- 
gar; and  nothing  "riled"  old  Gadley  more  than  hearing 
her  views  upon  this  point. 

"It's  not  fair  to  the  gals,"  I  once  heard  her  say  to  him. 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       173 

I  was  working  in  the  next  room,  with  the  door  not  quite 
closed,  added  to  which  she  talked  at  the  top  of  her  voice 
on  all  subjects.  "What  real  gentleman,  I  should  like  to 
know,  is  going  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a  City  attorney  ? 
As  I  told  him  years  ago,  he  ought  to  have  retired  and  gone 
into  the  House." 

''The  very  thing  your  poor  father  used  to  talk  of  doing 
whenever  things  were  going  a  bit  queer  in  the  retail  coal 
and  potato  business,"  grunted  old  Gadley. 

Mrs.  Stillwood  called  him  a  ''low  beast"  in  her  most 
aristocratic  tones,  and  swept  out  of  the  room. 

Not  that  old  Stillwood  himself  ever  expressed  fondness 
for  the  law. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Kelver,"  I  remember  his  saying 
to  me  on  one  occasion,  "that  you  have  done  wisely  in 
choosing  the  law.  It  makes  one  regard  humanity  morally 
as  the  medical  profession  regards  it  physically : — as  uni- 
versally unsound.  You  suspect  everybody  of  being  a 
rogue.  When  people  are  behaving  themselves,  we  lawyers 
hear  nothing  of  them.  All  we  hear  of  is  roguery,  trickery 
and  hypocrisy.  It  deteriorates  the  character,  Kelver. 
We  live  in  a  perpetual  atmosphere  of  transgression.  I 
sometimes  fancy  it  may  be  infectious." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  have  infected  you,  sir,"  I  replied; 
for,  as  I  think  I  have  already  mentioned,  the  firm  of  Still- 
wood, Waterhead  and  Royal  was  held  in  legal  circles  as 
the  synonym  for  rectitude  of  dealing  quite  old-fashioned. 

"I  hope  not,  Kelver,  I  hope  not,"  the  old  gentleman  re- 
plied ;  "and  yet,  do  you  know,  I  sometimes  suspect  myself 
— wonder  if  I  may  not  perhaps  be  a  scamp  without  realis- 
ing it.  A  rogue,  you  know,  Kelver,  can  always  explain 
himself  into  an  honest  man  to  his  own  satisfaction.  A 
scamp  is  never  a  scamp  to  himself." 

His  words  for  the  moment  alarmed  me,  for,  acting  on 
old  Gadley's  advice,  I  had  persuaded  my  mother  to  put 
all  her  small  capital  into  Mr.  Stillwood's  hands  for  re-in- 
vestment, a  transaction  that  had  resulted  in  substantial 


174  P^ul  Kelver 

increase  of  our  small  income.     But,  looking  Into  his  smil- 
ing eyes,  my  momentary  fear  vanished. 

Laughing,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  "One 
person  always  be  suspicious  of,  Kelver — yourself.  No- 
body can  do  you  so  much  harm  as  yourself." 

Of  Washburn  we  saw  more  and  more.  **Hal"  we  both 
called  him  now,  for  removing  with  his  gentle,  masterful 
hands  my  mother's  shyness  from  about  her,  he  had  es- 
tablished himself  almost  as  one  of  the  family,  my  mother 
regarding  him  as  she  might  some  absurdly  bearded  boy 
entrusted  to  her  care  without  his  knowing  it,  I  looking  up 
to  him  as  to  some  wonderful  elder  brother. 

"You  rest  me,  Mrs.  Kelver,"  he  would  say,  lighting  his 
pipe  and  sinking  down  into  the  deep  leathern  chair  that 
always  waited  for  him  in  our  parlour.  "Your  even  voice, 
your  soft  eyes,  your  quiet  hands,  they  soothe  me." 

"It  is  good  for  a  man,"  he  would  say,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other  of  us  through  the  hanging  smoke,  "to  test 
his  wisdom  by  two  things :  the  face  of  a  good  woman,  and 
the  ear  of  a  child — I  beg  your  pardon,  Paul — of  a  young 
man.  A  good  woman's  face  is  the  white  sunlight.  Un- 
der the  gas-lamps  who  shall  tell  diamond  from  paste? 
Bring  it  into  the  sunlight :  does  it  stand  that  test  ?  Then  it 
is  good.  And  the  children !  they  are  the  waiting  earth  on 
which  we  fling  our  store.  Is  it  chaff  and  dust  or  living 
seed  ?  Wait  and  watch.  I  shower  my  thoughts  over  our 
Paul,  Mrs.  Kelver.  They  seem  to  me  brilliant,  deep, 
original.  The  young  beggar  swallows  them,  forgets 
them.  They  were  rubbish.  Then  I  say  something  that 
dwells  with  him,  that  grows.  Ah,  that  was  alive,  that 
was  a  seed.  The  waiting  earth,  it  can  make  use  only  of 
what  is  true." 

"You  should  marry,  Hal,"  my  mother  would  say.  It 
was  her  panacea  for  all  mankind. 

"I  would,  Mrs.  Kelver,"  he  answered  her  on  one  occa- 
sion, "I  would  to-morrow  if  I  could  marry  half  a  dozen 
women.     I  should  make  an  ideal  husband  for  half  a  dozen 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       175 

wives.  One  I  should  neglect  for  five  days,  and  be  a  bur- 
den to  upon  the  sixth." 

From  any  other  than  Hal  my  mother  would  have  taken 
such  a  remark,  made  even  in  jest,  as  an  insult  to  her  sex. 
But  Hal's  smile  was  a  coating  that  could  sugar  any  pill. 

"I  am  not  one  man,  Mrs.  Kelver,  I  am  half  a  dozen.  If 
I  were  to  marry  one  wife  she  would  be  married  to  six 
husbands.     It  is  too  many  for  any  woman  to  manage." 

"Have  you  never  fallen  in  love  ?"  asked  my  mother. 

'Three  of  me  have,  but  on  each  occasion  the  other  five 
of  me  out-voted  him." 

"You're  sure  six  would  be  sufficient?"  queried  my 
mother,  smiling. 

"Just  the  right  number,  Mrs.  Kelver.  There  is  one  of 
me  must  worship,  adore  a  woman  madly,  abjectly ;  grovel 
before  her  like  the  Troubadour  before  his  Queen  of  Song, 
eat  her  slipper,  drink  the  water  she  has  washed  in,  scourge 
himself  before  her  window,  die  for  a  kiss  of  her  glove 
flung  down  with  a  laugh.  She  must  be  scornful,  con- 
temptuous, cruel.  There  is  another  I  would  cherish,  a 
tender,  yielding  creature,  one  whose  face  would  light  at 
my  coming,  cloud  at  my  going ;  one  to  whom  I  should  be  a 
god.  There  is  a  third  I,  a  child  of  Pan — an  ugly  little 
beast,  Mrs.  Kelver ;  horns  on  head  and  hoofs  on  feet,  leer- 
ing through  the  wood,  seeking  its  fit  mate.  And  a  fourth 
would  wed  a  wholesome,  homely  wench,  deep  of  bosom, 
broad  of  hip ;  fit  mother  of  a  sturdy  brood.  A  fifth  could 
only  be  content  with  a  true  friend,  a  comrade  wise  and 
witty,  a  sharer  and  understander  of  all  joys  and  thoughts 
and  feelings.  And  a  last,  Mrs.  Kelver,  yearns  for  a 
woman  pure  and  sweet,  clothed  in  love  and  crowned  with 
holiness.  Shouldn't  we  be  a  handful,  Mrs.  Kelver,  for 
any  one  woman  in  an  eight-roomed  house  ?" 

But  my  mother  was  not  to  be  discouraged.  "You  will 
find  the  woman  one  day,  Hal,  who  will  be  all  of  them  to 
you — all  of  them  that  are  worth  having,  that  is.  And 
your  eight-roomed  house  will  be  a  kingdom !" 


176  Paul  Kelver  \ 

"A  man  is  many,  and  a  woman  but  one,"  answered 
Hal. 

'That  is  what  men  say  who  are  too  blind  to  see  more 
than  one  side  of  a  woman,"  retorted  my  mother,  a  little 
sharply;  for  the  honour  and  credit  of  her  own  sex  in  all 
things  was  very  dear  to  my  mother.  And  indeed  this  I 
have  learned,  that  the  flag  of  Womanhood  you  shall  ever 
find  upheld  by  all  true  women,  flouted  only  by  the  false. 
For  a  judge  in  petticoats  is  ever  but  a  witness  in  a  wig. 

Hal  laid  aside  his  pipe  and  leant  forward  in  his  chair. 
"Now  tell  us,  Mrs.  Kelver,  for  our  guidance,  we  two 
young  bachelors,  what  must  the  lover  of  a  young  girl  be  ?" 

Always  very  serious  on  this  subject  of  love,  my  mother 
answered  gravely  :  *'She  asks  for  the  whole  of  a  man,  Hal, 
not  merely  for  a  sixth,  nor  any  other  part  of  him.  She  is 
a  child  asking  for  a  lover  to  whom  she  can  look  up,  who 
will  teach  her,  guide  her,  protect  her.  She  is  a  queen  de- 
manding homage,  and  yet  he  is  her  king  whom  it  is  her 
joy  to  serve.  She  asks  to  be  his  partner,  his  fellow- 
worker,  his  playmate,  and  at  the  same  time  she  loves  to 
think  of  him  as  her  child,  her  big  baby  she  must  take  care 
of.  Whatever  he  has  to  give  she  has  also  to  respond  with. 
You  need  not  marry  six  wives,  Hal ;  you  will  find  your  six 
in  one." 

"  'As  the  water  to  the  vessel,  woman  shapes  herself  to 
man  f  an  old  heathen  said  that  three  thousand  years  ago, 
and  others  have  repeated  him ;  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"I  don't  like  that  way  of  putting  it,"  answered  my 
mother.  "I  mean  that  as  you  say  of  man,  so  in  every  true 
woman  is  contained  all  women.  But  to  know  her  com- 
pletely you  must  love  her  with  all  love." 

Sometimes  the  talk  would  be  of  religion,  for  my 
mother's  faith  was  no  dead  thing  that  must  be  kept  ever 
sheltered  from  the  air,  lest  it  crumble. 

One  evening  ''Who  are  we  that  we  should  live?"  cried 
Hal.  "The  spider  is  less  cruel;  the  very  pig  less  greedy, 
gluttonous  and  foul ;  the  tiger  less  tigerish  ;  our  cousin  ape 


In  Which   Paul  is  Shipwrecked       177 

less  monkeyish.  What  are  we  but  savages,  clothed  and 
ashamed,  nine-tenths  of  us  ?" 

"But  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,"  reminded  him  my  mother, 
''would  have  been  spared  for  the  sake  of  ten  just  men." 

"Much  more  sensible  to  have  hurried  the  ten  men  out, 
leaving  the  remainder  to  be  buried  with  all  their  abomi- 
nations under  their  own  ashes,"  growled  Hal. 

"And  we  shall  be  purified,"  continued  my  mother,  "the 
evil  in  us  washed  away." 

"Why  have  made  us  ill  merely  to  mend  us?  If  the 
Almighty  were  so  anxious  for  our  company,  why  not  have 
made  us  decent  in  the  beginning?"  He  had  just  come 
away  from  a  meeting  of  Poor  Law  Guardians,  and 
was  in  a  state  of  dissatisfaction  with  human  nature  gen- 
erally. 

"It  is  His  way,"  answered  my  mother,  "The  precious 
stone  hes  hid  in  clay.     He  has  His  purpose." 

"Is  the  stone  so  very  precious  ?" 

"Would  He  have  taken  so  much  pains  to  fashion  it  if  it 
were  not?  You  see  it  all  around  you,  Hal,  in  your  daily 
practice — heroism,  self-sacrifice,  love  stronger  than  death. 
Can  you  think  He  will  waste  it,  He  who  uses  again  even 
the  dead  leaf?" 

"Shall  the  new  leaf  remember  the  new  flower?" 

"Yes,  if  it  ever  knew  it.  Shall  memory  be  the  only 
thing  to  die?" 

Often  of  an  evening  I  would  accompany  Hal  upon  his 
rounds.  By  the  savage  tribe  he  both  served  and  ruled  he 
had  come  to  be  regarded  as  medicine  man  and  priest  com- 
bined. He  was  both  their  tyrant  and  their  slave,  work- 
ing for  them  early  and  late,  yet  bullying  them  unmerci- 
fully, enforcing  his  commands  sometimes  with  vehement 
tongue,  and  where  that  would  not  suffice  with  quick  fists ; 
the  counsellor,  helper,  ruler,  literally  of  thousands.  Of 
income  he  could  have  made  barely  enough  to  five  upon; 
but  few  men  could  have  enjoyed  more  sense  of  power; 
and  that  I  think  it  was  that  held  him  to  the  neighbourhood. 


178  Paul  Kelver 

''Nature  laid  me  by  and  forgot  me  for  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand years,"  was  his  own  explanation  of  himself.  "Born 
in  my  proper  period,  I  should  have  climbed  to  chieftainship 
upon  uplifted  shields.  I  might  have  been  an  Attila,  an 
Alaric.  Among  the  civilised  one  can  only  climb  by  crawl- 
ing, and  I  am  too  impatient  to  crawl.  Here  I  am  king  at 
once  by  force  of  brain  and  muscle."  So  in  Poplar  he  re- 
mained, poor  in  fees  but  rich  in  honour. 

The  love  of  justice  was  a  passion  with  him.  The  op- 
pressors of  the  poor  knew  and  feared  him  well.  Injustice 
once  proved  before  him,  vengeance  followed  sure.  If  the 
law  would  not  help,  he  never  hesitated  to  employ  lawless- 
ness, of  which  he  could  always  command  a  satisfactory 
supply.  Bumble  might  have  the  Board  of  Guardians  at 
his  back,  Shylock  legal  support  for  his  pound  of  flesh ;  but 
sooner  or  later  the  dark  night  brought  punishment,  a 
ducking  in  dock  basin  or  canal,  "Brutal  Assault  Upon  a 
Respected  Resident"  (according  to  the  local  papers),  the 
''miscreants"  always  making  and  keeping  good  their  es- 
cape, for  he  was  an  admirable  organiser. 

One  night  it  seemed  to  him  necessary  that  a  child  should 
go  at  once  into  the  Infirmary. 

"It  ain't  no  use  my  taking  her  now,"  explained  the 
mother,  "I'll  only  get  bullyragged  for  disturbing  'em. 
My  old  man  was  carried  there  three  months  ago  when  he 
broke  his  leg,  but  they  wouldn't  take  him  in  till  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Oho !  oho !  oho !"  sang  Hal,  taking  the  child  up  in  his 
arms  and  putting  on  his  hat.  "You  follow  me ;  we'll  have 
some  sport.  Tally  ho!  tally  ho!"  And  away  we  went, 
Hal  heading  our  procession  through  the  streets,  shout- 
ing a  rollicking  song,  the  baby  staring  at  him  open- 
mouthed. 

"Now  ring,"  cried  Hal  to  the  mother  on  our  reaching 
the  Workhouse  gate.  "Ring  modestly,  as  becomes  the 
poor  ringing  at  the  gate  of  Charity."  And  the  bell  tinkled 
faintly. 


In  Which   Paul  is  Shipwrecked       179 

"Ring  again!"  cried  Hal,  drawing  back  into  the 
shadow ;  and  at  last  the  wicket  opened. 

'*Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,  my  baby " 

''Blast  your  baby !"  answered  a  husky  voice,  "what  d'ye 
mean  by  coming  here  this  time  of  night?" 

"Please,  sir,  Fm  afraid  it's  dying,  and  the  Doctor " 

The  man  was  no  sentimentalist,  and  to  do  him  justice 
made  no  hypocritical  pretence  of  being  one.  He  con- 
signed the  baby  and  its  mother  and  the  doctor  to  Hell,  and 
the  wicket  would  have  closed  but  for  the  point  of  Hal's 
stick. 

"Open  the  gate!"  roared  Hal.  It  was  idle  pretending 
not  to  hear  Hal  anywhere  within  half  a  mile  of  him  when 
he  filled  his  lungs  for  a  cry.  "Open  it  quick,  you  black- 
guard !    You  gross  vat-load  of  potato  spirit,  you " 

That  the  Governor  should  speak  a  language  familiar  to 
the  governed  was  held  by  the  Romans,  born  rulers  of  men, 
essential  to  authority.  This  theory  Hal  also  maintained. 
His  command  of  idiom  understanded  by  his  people  was 
one  of  his  rods  of  power.  In  less  time  than  it  took  the 
trembling  porter  to  loosen  the  bolts,  Hal  had  presented 
him  with  a  word  picture  of  himself,  as  seen  by  others,  that 
must  have  lessened  his  self-esteem. 

"I  didn't  know  as  it  was  you.  Doctor,"  explained  the 
man. 

"No,  you  thought  you  had  only  to  deal  with  some  help- 
less creature  you  could  bully.  Stir  your  fat  carcass,  you 
ugly  cur!     I'm  in  a  hurry." 

The  House  Surgeon  was  away,  but  an  attendant  or  two 
were  lounging  about,  unfortunately  for  themselves,  for 
Hal,  being  there,  took  it  upon  himself  to  go  round  the 
ward  setting  crooked  things  straight;  and  a  busy  and 
alarming  time  they  had  of  it.  Not  till  a  couple  of  hours 
later  did  he  fling  himself  forth  again,  having  enjoyed  him- 
self greatly. 

A  gentleman  came  to  reside  in  the  district,  a  firm  be- 
liever in  the  wisdom  of  the  couplet :  "A  woman,  a  spaniel 


i8o  Paul  Kelver 

and  a  walnut  tree,  The  more  you  beat  them  the  better  they 
be."  The  spaniel  and  the  walnut  tree  he  did  not  possess, 
so  his  wife  had  the  benefit  of  his  undivided  energies. 
Whether  his  treatment  had  improved  her  morally,  one 
cannot  say;  her  evident  desire  to  do  her  best  may  have 
been  natural  or  may  have  been  assisted ;  but  physically  it 
was  injuring  her.  He  used  to  beat  her  about  the  head 
with  his  strap,  his  argument  being  that  she  always  seemed 
half  asleep,  and  that  this,  for  the  time  being,  woke  her  up. 
Sympathisers  brought  complaint  to  Hal,  for  the  police  in 
that  neighbourhood  are  to  keep  the  streets  respectable. 
With  the  life  in  the  little  cells  that  line  them  they  are  no 
more  concerned  than  are  the  scavengers  of  the  sewers 
with  the  domestic  arrangements  of  the  rats. 

"What's  he  like?"  asked  Hal. 

"He's  a  big  'un,"  answered  the  woman  who  had  come 
with  the  tale,  "and  he's  good  with  his  fists — I've  seen  him. 
But  there's  no  getting  at  him.  He's  the  sort  to  have  the 
law  on  you  if  you  interfere  with  him,  and  she's  the  sort 
to  help  him." 

"Any  likely  time  to  catch  him  at  it?"  asked  Hal. 

"Saturdays  it's  as  regular  as  early  closing,"  answered 
the  woman,  "but  you  might  have  to  wait  a  bit." 

"I'll  wait  in  your  room,  granny,  next  Saturday,"  sug- 
gested Hal. 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  woman,  "I'll  risk  it,  even  if  I 
do  get  a  bloody  head  for  it." 

So  that  week  end  we  sat  very  still  on  two  rickety  chairs 
listening  to  a  long  succession  of  sharp,  cracking  sounds 
that,  had  one  not  known,  one  might  have  imagined  pro- 
duced by  some  child  monotonously  exploding  percussion 
caps,  each  one  followed  by  an  answering  groan.  Hal 
never  moved,  but  sat  smoking  his  pipe,  an  ugly  smile 
about  his  mouth.  Only  once  he  opened  his  lips,  and  then 
it  was  to  murmur  to  himself :  "And  God  blessed  them  and 
said  unto  them.  Be  fruitful  and  multiply." 

The  horror  ceased  at  last,  and  later  we  heard  the  door 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       i8i 

unlock  and  a  man's  foot  upon  the  landing  above.  Hal 
beckoned  to  me,  and  swiftly  we  slipped  out  and  down  the 
creaking  stairs.  He  opened  the  front  door,  and  we  waited 
in  the  evil-smelling  little  passage.  The  man  came 
towards  us  whistling.  He  was  a  powerfully  built  fellow, 
rather  good-looking,  I  remember.  He  stopped  abruptly 
upon  catching  sight  of  Hal,  who  stood  crouching  in  the 
shadow  of  the  door. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Waiting  to  pull  your  nose !"  answered  Hal,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word.  And  then  laughing  he  ran  down  the 
street,  I  following. 

The  man  gave  chase,  calling  to  us  with  a  string  of  im- 
precations to  stop.  But  Hal  only  ran  the  faster,  though 
after  a  street  or  two  he  slackened,  and  the  man  gained  on 
us  a  little. 

vSo  we  continued,  the  distance  between  us  and  our  pur- 
suer now  a  little  more,  now  a  little  less.  People  turned 
and  stared  at  us.  A  few  boys,  scenting  grim  fun,  fol- 
lowed shouting  for  awhile ;  but  these  we  soon  out-paced, 
till  at  last  in  deserted  streets,  winding  among  warehouses 
bordering  the  river,  we  three  ran  alone,  between  long, 
lifeless  walls.  I  looked  into  Hal's  face  from  time  to  time, 
and  he  was  laughing;  but  every  now  and  then  he  would 
look  over  his  shoulder  at  the  man  behind  him  still  follow- 
ing doggedly,  and  then  his  face  would  be  twisted  into  a 
comically  terrified  grimace.  Turning  into  a  narrow  cul- 
de-sac,  Hal  suddenly  ducked  behind  a  wide  brick  but- 
tress, and  the  man,  still  running,  passed  us.  And  then 
Hal  stood  up  and  called  to  him,  and  the  man  turned, 
looked  into  Hal's  eyes,  and  understood. 

He  was  not  a  coward.  Besides,  even  a  rat  when  cor- 
nered will  fight  for  its  life.  He  made  a  rush  at  Hal,  and 
Hal  made  no  attempt  to  defend  himself.  He  stood  there 
laughing,  and  the  man  struck  him  full  in  the  face,  and  the 
blood  spurted  out  and  flowed  down  into  his  mouth.  The 
man  came  on  again,  though  terror  was  in  every  line  of  his 


1 82  Paul  Kelver 

face,  all  his  desire  being  to  escape.  But  this  time  Hal 
drove  him  back  again.  They  fought  for  awhile,  if  one 
can  call  it  fighting,  till  the  man,  mad  for  air,  reeled  against 
the  wall,  stood  there  quivering  convulsively,  his  mouth 
wide  open,  resembling  more  than  anything  else  some  huge 
dying  fish.     And  Hal  drew  away  and  waited. 

I  have  no  desire  to  see  again  the  sight  I  saw  that  quiet, 
still  evening,  framed  by  those  high,  windowless  walls, 
from  behind  which  sounded  with  ceaseless  regularity  the 
gentle  swish  of  the  incoming  tide.  All  sense  of  retribu- 
tion was  drowned  in  the  sight  of  Hal's  evident  enjoyment 
of  his  sport.  The  judge  had  disappeared,  leaving  the 
work  to  be  accomplished  by  a  savage  animal  loosened  for 
the  purpose. 

The  wretched  creature  flung  itself  again  towards  its 
only  door  of  escape,  fought  with  the  vehemence  of  de- 
spair, to  be  flung  back  again,  a  hideous,  bleeding  mass  of 
broken  flesh.  I  tried  to  cling  to  Hal's  arm,  but  one  jerk 
of  his  steel  muscles  flung  me  ten  feet  away. 

"Keep  off,  you  fool !"  he  cried.  *T  won't  kill  him.  I'm 
keeping  my  head.  I  shall  know  when  to  stop."  And  I 
crept  away  and  waited. 

Hal  joined  me  a  little  later,  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
face.  We  made  our  way  to  a  small  public-house  near  the 
river,  and  from  there  Hal  sent  a  couple  of  men  on  whom 
he  could  rely  with  instructions  how  to  act.  I  never  heard 
any  more  of  the  matter.  It  was  a  subject  on  which  I  did 
not  care  to  speak  to  Hal.  I  can  only  hope  that  good  came 
of  it. 

There  was  a  spot — it  has  been  cleared  away  since  to 
make  room  for  the  approach  to  Greenwich  Tunnel — it  was 
then  the  entrance  to  a  grain  depot  in  connection  with  the 
Milwall  Docks.  A  curious  brick  well  it  resembled,  in  the 
centre  of  which  a  roadway  wound  downward,  corkscrew 
fashion,  disappearing  at  the  bottom  into  darkness  under 
a  yawning  arch.  The  place  possessed  the  curious  prop- 
erty of  being  ever  filled  with  a  ceaseless  murmur,  as 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       183 

though  it  were  some  aerial  maelstrom,  drawing  Into  its 
silent  vacuum  all  wandering  waves  of  sound  from  the  rest- 
less human  ocean  flowing  round  it.  No  single  tone  could 
one  ever  distinguish  :  it  was  a  mingling  of  all  voices,  heard 
there  like  the  murmur  of  a  sea-soaked  shell. 

We  passed  through  it  on  our  return.  Its  work  for  the 
day  was  finished,  its  strange,  weary  song  uninterrupted  by 
the  mighty  waggons  thundering  up  and  down  its  spiral 
way.  Hal  paused,  leaning  against  the  railings  that  en- 
circled its  centre,  and  listened. 

"Hark,  do  you  not  hear  it,  Paul  ?"  he  asked.  ''It  is  the 
music  of  Humanity.  All  human  notes  are  needful  to  its 
making:  the  faint  wail  of  the  new-born,  the  cry  of  the 
dying  thief;  the  beating  of  the  hammers,  the  merry  trip 
of  dancers;  the  clatter  of  the  teacups,  the  roaring  of  the 
streets ;  the  crooning  of  the  mother  to  her  babe,  the  scream 
of  the  tortured  child ;  the  meeting  kiss  of  lovers,  the  sob 
of  those  that  part.  Listen !  prayers  and  curses,  sighs  and 
laughter;  the  soft  breathing  of  the  sleeping,  the  fretful 
feet  of  pain ;  voices  of  pity,  voices  of  hate ;  the  glad  song 
of  the  strong,  the  foolish  complaining  of  the  weak.  Listen 
to  it,  Paul !  Right  and  wrong,  good  and  evil,  hope  and 
despair,  it  is  but  one  voice — a  single  note,  drawn  by  the 
sweep  of  the  Player's  hand  across  the  quivering  strings  of 
man.  What  is  the  meaning  of  it,  Paul?  Can  you  read 
it?  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  a  note  of  joy,  so  full,  so 
endless,  so  complete,  that  I  cry:  'Blessed  be  the  Lord 
whose  hammers  have  beaten  upon  us,  whose  fires  have 
shaped  us  to  His  ends !'  And  sometimes  it  sounds  to  me 
a  dying  note,  so  that  I  could  curse  Him  who  in  wanton- 
ness has  wrung  it  from  the  anguish  of  His  creatures — till 
I  would  that  I  could  fling  myself,  Prometheus  like,  be- 
tween Him  and  His  victims,  calling:  "My  darkness,  but 
their  light ;  my  agony,  O  God,  their  hope !'  " 

The  faint  light  from  a  neighbouring  gas-lamp  fell  upon 
his  face  that  an  hour  before  I  had  seen  the  face  of  a  wild 
beast.     The  ugly  mouth  was  quivering,  tears  stood  in  his 


184  Paul  Kelver 

great,  tender  eyes.  Could  his  prayer  in  that  moment  have 
been  granted,  could  he  have  pressed  against  his  bosom  all 
the  pain  of  the  world,  he  would  have  rejoiced. 

He  shook  himself  together  with  a  laugh.  "Come,  Paul, 
we  have  had  a  busy  afternoon,  and  I'm  thirsty.  Let  us 
drink  some  beer,  my  boy,  good  sound  beer,  and  plenty  of 
it." 

My  mother  fell  ill  that  winter.  Mountain  born  and 
mountain  bred,  the  close  streets  had  never  agreed  with 
her,  and  scolded  by  all  of  us,  she  promised,  "come  the  fine 
weather,"  to  put  sentiment  behind  her,  and  go  away  from 
them. 

"I'm  thinking  she  will,"  said  Hal,  gripping  my  shoulder 
with  his  strong  hand,  "but  it'll  be  by  herself  that  she'll  go, 
lad.  My  wonder  is,"  he  continued,  "that  she  .has  held  out 
so  long.  If  anything,  it  is  you  that  have  kept  her  alive. 
Now  that  you  are  off  her  mind  to  a  certain  extent,  she 
is  worrying  about  your  father,  I  expect.  These  women, 
they  never  will  believe  a  man  can  take  care  of  himself, 
even  in  Heaven.  She's  never  quite  trusted  the  Lord  with 
him,  and  never  will  till  she's  there  to  give  an  eye  to  things 
herself." 

Hal's  prophecy  fell  true.  She  left  "come  the  fine 
weather,"  as  she  had  promised  :  I  remember  it  was  the  first 
day  primroses  were  hawked  in  the  street.  But  another 
death  had  occurred  just  before;  which,  concerning  me 
closely  as  it  does,  I  had  better  here  dispose  of;  and  that 
was  the  death  of  old  Mr.  Stillwood,  who  passed  away  rich 
in  honour  and  regret,  and  was  buried  with  much  ostenta- 
tion and  much  sincere  sorrow ;  for  he  had  been  to  many  of 
his  clients,  mostly  old  folk,  rather  a  friend  than  a  mere 
man  of  business,  and  had  gained  from  all  with  whom  he 
had  come  in  contact,  respect,  and  from  many  real  affection. 

In  conformity  with  the  old  legal  fashions  that  in  his 
life  he  had  so  fondly  clung  to,  his  will  was  read  aloud  by 
Mr.  Gadley  after  the  return  from  the  funeral,  and  many 
were  the  tears  its  recital  called  forth.     Written  years  ago 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       185 

by  himself  and  never  altered,  its  quaint  phraseology  was 
full  of  kindly  thought  and  expression.  No  one  had  been 
forgotten.  Clerks,  servants,  poor  relations,  all  had  been 
treated  with  even-handed  justice,  while  for  those  with 
claim  upon  him,  ample  provision  had  been  made.  Few 
wills,  I  think,  could  ever  have  been  read  less  open  to  criti- 
cism. 

Old  Gadley  slipped  his  arm  into  mine  as  we  left  the 
house.  "If  you've  nothing  to  do,  young  'un,"  he  said, 
"I'll  get  you  to  come  with  me  to  the  office.  I  have  got  all 
the  keys  in  my  pocket,  and  we  shall  be  quiet.  It  will  be 
sad  work  for  me,  and  I  had  rather  we  were  alone.  A 
couple  of  hours  will  show  us  everything." 

We  lighted  the  wax  candles — old  Stillwood  could  never 
tolerate  gas  in  his  own  room — and  opening  the  safe  took 
out  the  heavy  ledgers  one  by  one,  and  from  them  Gadley 
dictated  figures  which  I  wrote  down  and  added  up. 

"Thirty  years  I  have  kept  these  books  for  him,"  said 
old  Gadley,  as  we  laid  by  the  last  of  them,  "thirty  years 
come  Christmas  next,  he  and  I  together.  No  other  hands 
but  ours  have  ever  touched  them,  and  now  people  to  whom 
they  mean  nothing  but  so  much  business  will  fling  them 
about,  drop  greasy  crumbs  upon  them — I  know  their 
ways,  the  brutes! — scribble  all  over  them.  And  he  who 
always  would  have  everything  so  neat  and  orderly !" 

We  came  to  the  end  of  them  in  less  than  the  time  old 
Gadley  had  thought  needful :  in  such  perfect  order  had 
everything  been  maintained.  I  was  preparing  to  go,  but 
old  Gadley  had  drawn  a  couple  of  small  keys  from  his 
pocket,  and  was  shuffling  again  towards  the  safe. 

"Only  one  more,"  he  explained  in  answer  to  my  look, 
"his  own  private  ledger.  It  will  merely  be  in  the  nature 
of  a  summary,  but  we'll  just  glance  through  it." 

He  opened  an  inner  drawer  and  took  from  it  a  small 
thick  volume  bound  in  green  leather  and  closed  with  two 
brass  locks.  An  ancient  volume,  it  appeared,  its  strong 
binding  faded  and  stained.     Old  Gadley  sat  down  with  it 


1 86  Paul  Kelver 

at  the  dead  man's  own  desk,  and  snuffing  the  two  shaded 
candles,  unlocked  and  opened  it.  I  was  standing  opposite, 
so  that  the  book  to  me  was  upside  down,  but  the  date  on 
the  first  page,  "1841,"  caught  my  eye,  as  also  the  small 
neat  writing  now  brown  with  age. 

"So  neat,  so  orderly  he  always  was,"  murmured  old 
Gadley  again,  smoothing  the  page  affectionately  with  his 
hand,  and  I  waited  for  his  dictation. 

But  no  glib  flow  of  figures  fell  from  him.  His  eye- 
brows suddenly  contracted,  his  body  stiffened  itself. 
Then  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  nothing  sounded  in 
the  quiet  room  but  his  turning  of  the  creakling  pages. 
Once  or  twice  he  glanced  round  swiftly  over  his  shoulder, 
as  though  haunted  by  the  idea  of  some  one  behind  him; 
then  back  to  the  neat,  closely  written  folios,  his  little  eyes, 
now  exhibiting  a  comical  look  of  horror,  starting  out  of 
his  round  red  face.  First  slowly,  then  quickly  with 
trembling  hands  he  turned  the  pages,  till  the  continual 
ratling  of  the  leaves  sounded  like  strange,  mocking 
laughter  through  the  silent,  empty  room ;  almost  one  could 
imagine  it  coming  from  some  watching  creature  hidden 
in  the  shadows. 

The  end  reached,  he  sat  staring  before  him,  his  whole 
body  quivering,  great  beads  of  sweat  upon  his  shiny  bald 
head. 

"Am  I  mad?"  was  all  he  could  find  to  say.  "Kelver, 
am  I  mad?" 

He  handed  me  the  book.  It  was  a  cynically  truthful 
record  of  fraud,  extending  over  thirty  years.  Every  client, 
every  friend,  every  relative  that  had  fallen  into  his  net 
he  had  robbed :  the  fortunate  ones  of  a  part,  the  majority 
of  their  all.  Its  very  first  entry  debited  him  with  the  pro- 
ceeds of  his  own  partner's  estate.  Its  last  ran  : — "Re  Kel- 
ver— various  sales  of  stock."  To  his  credit  were  his  pay- 
ments year  after  year  of  imaginary  interests  on  imaginary 
securities,  the  surplus  accounted  for  with  simple  brevity : 
^Transferred  to  own  account."      No  record  could  have 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       187 

been  more  clear,  more  frank.  Beneath  each  transaction 
was  written  its  true  history ;  the  actual  investments,  some- 
times necessary,  carefully  distinguished  from  the  false. 
In  neat  red  ink  would  occur  here  and  there  a  note  for  his 
own  guidance:  ''Eldest  child  comes  of  age  August,  '73. 
Be  prepared  for  trustees  desiring  production."  Turning 
to  "August,  '73,"  one  found  that  genuine  investment  had 
been  made,  to  be  sold  again  a  few  months  later  on.  From 
beginning  to  end  not  a  single  false  step  had  he  com- 
mitted. Suspicious  clients  had  been  ear-marked:  the 
trusting  discriminated  with  gratitude,  and  milked  again 
and  again  to  meet  emergency. 

As  a  piece  of  organisation  it  was  magnificent.  No  one 
but  a  financial  genius  could  have  picked  a  dozen  steps 
through  such  a  network  of  chicanery.  For  half  a  lifetime 
he  had  moved  among  it,  dignified,  respected  and  secure. 

Whether  even  he  could  have  maintained  his  position 
for  another  month  was  doubtful.  Suicide,  though  hinted 
at,  was  proved  to  have  been  impossible.  It  seemed  as 
though  with  his  amazing  audacity  he  had  tricked  even 
Death  into  becoming  his  accomplice. 

''But  it  is  impossible,  Kelver !"  cried  Gadley,  "this  must 
be  some  dream.  Stillwood,  Waterhead  and  Royal! 
What  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?" 

He  took  the  book  into  his  hands  again,  then  burst  into 
tears.  "You  never  knew  him,"  wailed  the  poor  little  man. 
"Stillwood,  Waterhead  and  Royal!  I  came  here  as  office 
boy  fifty  years  ago.  He  was  more  like  a  friend  to  me 
than "  and  again  the  sobs  shook  his  little  fat  body. 

I  locked  the  books  away  and  put  him  into  his  hat  and 
coat.  But  I  had  much  difficulty  in  getting  him  out  of  the 
office. 

"I  daren't,  young  'un,"  he  cried,  drawing  back.  "Fifty 
years  I  have  walked  out  of  this  office,  proud  of  it,  proud 
of  being  connected  with  it.     I  daren't  face  the  street !" 

All  the  way  home  his  only  idea  was :  Could  it  not  be 
hidden  ?     Honest,  kindly  little  man  that  he  was,  he  seemed 


1 88  Paul  Kelver 

to  have  no  thought  for  the  unfortunate  victims.  The 
good  name  of  his  master,  of  his  friend,  gone !  Stillwood, 
Waterhead  and  Royal,  a  by-word !  To  have  avoided  that 
I  believe  he  would  have  been  willing  for  yet  another  hun- 
dred clients  to  be  ruined. 

I  saw  him  to  his  door,  then  turned  homeward ;  and  to 
my  surprise  in  a  dark  by-street  heard  myself  laughing 
heartily.  I  checked  myself  instantly,  feeling  ashamed  of 
my  callousness,  of  my  seeming  indifference  to  the  trouble 
even  of  myself  and  my  mother.  Yet  as  there  passed  be- 
fore me  the  remembrance  of  that  imposing  and  expensive 
funeral  with  its  mournful  following  of  tearful  faces;  the 
hushed  reading  of  the  will  with  its  accompaniment  of 
rustling  approval;  the  picture  of  the  admirably  sympa- 
thetic clergyman  consoling  with  white  hands  Mrs.  Still- 
wood,  inclined  to  hysteria,  but  anxious  concerning  her 
two  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  crape  which  by  no  possibil- 
ity of  means  could  now  be  paid  for — recurred  to  me  the 
obituary  notice  in  "The  Chelsea  Weekly  Chronicle" :  the 
humour  of  the  thing  swept  all  else  before  it,  and  I  laughed 
again — I  could  not  help  it — loud  and  long.  It  was  my 
first  introduction  to  the  comedy  of  life,  which  is  apt  to  be 
more  brutal  than  the  comedy  of  fiction. 

But  nearing  home,  the  serious  side  of  the  matter  forced 
itself  uppermost.  Fortunately,  our  supposed  dividends 
had  been  paid  to  us  by  Mr.  Stillwood  only  the  month  be- 
fore. Could  I  keep  the  thing  from  troubling  my  mother's 
last  days  ?  It  would  be  hard  work.  I  should  have  to  do 
it  alone,  for  a  perhaps  foolish  pride  prevented  my 
taking  Hal  into  my  confidence,  even  made  his  friendship 
a  dread  to  me,  lest  he  should  come  to  learn  and  offer  help. 
There  is  a  higher  generosity,  it  is  said,  that  can  receive 
with  pleasure  as  well  as  bestow  favour ;  but  I  have  never 
felt  it.  Could  I  be  sure  of  acting  my  part,  of  not  betray- 
ing myself  to  her  sharp  eyes,  of  keeping  newspapers  and 
chance  gossip  away  from  her  ?  Good  shrewd  Amy  I  cau- 
tioned, but  I  shrank  from  even  speaking  on  the  subject 


In  Which  Paul  is  Shipwrecked       189 

to  Hal,  and  my  fear  was  lest  he  should  blunder  into  the 
subject,  which  for  the  usual  nine  days  occupied  much  pub- 
lic attention.  But  fortunately  he  appeared  not  even  to 
have  heard  of  the  scandal. 

Possibly  had  the  need  lasted  longer  I  might  have  failed, 
but  as  it  was,  a  few  weeks  saw  the  end. 

"Don't  leave  me  to-day,  Paul,"  whispered  my  mother 
to  me  one  morning.  So  I  stayed,  and  in  the  evening  my 
mother  put  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  I  lay  beside  her, 
my  head  upon  her  breast,  as  I  used  to  when  a  little  boy. 
And  when  the  morning  came  I  was  alone. 


BOOK  IL 


CHAPTER  I. 

DESCRIBES    THE    DESERT    ISLAND    TO    WHICH    PAUL    WAS 
DRIFTED. 

"Room  to  let  for  a  single  gentleman."  Sometimes  in  an 
idle  hour,  impelled  by  foolishness,  I  will  knock  at  the  door. 
It  is  opened  after  a  longer  or  shorter  interval  by 
the  "slavey" — in  the  morning,  slatternly,  her  arms  con- 
cealed beneath  her  apron ;  in  the  afternoon,  smart  in  dirty 
cap  and  apron.  How  well  I  know  her !  Unchanged,  not 
grown  an  inch — her  round  bewildered  eyes,  her  open 
mouth,  her  touzled  hair,  her  scored  red  hands.  With  an 
effort  I  refrain  from  muttering:  "So  sorry,  forgot  my 
key,"  from  pushing  past  her  and  mounting  two  at  a  time 
the  narrow  stairs,  carpeted  to  the  first  floor,  but  bare  be- 
yond. Instead,  I  say,  "Oh,  what  rooms  have  you  to  let  ?" 
when,  scuttling  to  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  she  will 
call  over  the  banisters :  "A  gentleman  to  see  the  rooms." 
There  comes  up,  panting,  a  harassed-looking,  elderly  fe- 
male, but  genteel  in  black.  She  crushes  past  the  little 
"slavey,"  and  approaching,  eyes  me  critically. 

"I  have  a  very  nice  room  on  the  first  floor,"  she  informs 
me,  "and  one  behind  on  the  third." 

I  agree  to  see  them,  explaining  that  I  am  seeking  them 
for  a  young  friend  of  mine.  We  squeeze  past  the  hat  and 
umbrella  stand:  there  is  just  room,  but  one  must  keep 
close  to  the  wall.  The  first  floor  is  rather  an  imposing 
apartment,  with  a  marble-topped  sideboard  measuring 
quite  three  feet  by  two,  the  doors  of  which  will  remain 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         191 

closed  if  you  introduce  a  wad  of  paper  between  them.  A 
green  table-cloth,  matching  the  curtains,  covers  the  loo- 
table.  The  lamp  is  perfectly  safe  so  long  as  it  stands  in 
the  exact  centre  of  the  table,  but  should  not  be  shifted. 
A  paper  fire-stove  ornament  in  some  mysterious  way  be- 
stows upon  the  room  an  air  of  chastity.  Above  the  man- 
telpiece is  a  fly-blown  mirror,  between  the  once  gilt  frame 
and  glass  of  which  can  be  inserted  invitation  cards;  in- 
deed, one  or  two  so  remain,  proving  that  the  tenants  even 
of  "bed-sitting-rooms"  are  not  excluded  from  social  de- 
lights. The  wall  opposite  is  adorned  by  an  oleograph  of 
the  kind  Cheap  Jacks  sell  by  auction  on  Saturday  nights 
in  the  Pimlico  Road,  and  warrant  as  "hand-made."  Gen- 
erally speaking,  it  is  a  Swiss  landscape.  There  appears 
to  be  more  "body"  in  a  Swiss  landscape  than  in  scenes 
from  less  favoured  localities.  A  dilapidated  mill,  a  foam- 
ing torrent,  a  mountain,  a  maiden  and  a  cow  can  at  the 
least  be  relied  upon.  An  easy  chair  (I  disclaim  all 
responsibility  for  the  adjective),  stuffed  with  many  coils 
of  steel  wire,  each  possessing  a  "business  end"  in  admi- 
rable working  order,  and  covered  with  horsehair,  highly 
glazed,  awaits  the  uninitiated.  There  is  one  way  of  sit- 
ting upon  it,  and  only  one :  by  using  the  extreme  edge,  and 
planting  your  feet  firmly  on  the  floor.  If  you  attempt  to 
lean  back  in  it  you  inevitably  slide  out  of  it.  When  so 
treated  it  seems  to  say  to  you :  "Excuse  me,  you  are  very 
heavy,  and  you  would  really  be  much  more  comfortable 
upon  the  floor.  Thank  you  so  much."  The  bed  is  behind 
the  door,  and  the  washstand  behind  the  bed.  If  you  sit 
facing  the  window  you  can  forget  the  bed.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  more  than  one  friend  come  to  call  on  you,  you 
are  glad  of  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  experienced  visitors 
prefer  it — make  straight  for  it,  refusing  with  firmness  to 
exchange  it  for  the  easy  chair. 

"And  this  room  is ?" 

"Eight    shillings    a    week,    sir — with    attendance,    of 
course." 


192  Paul  Kelver 

"Any  extras?'* 

"The  lamp,  sir,  is  eighteenpence  a  week;  and  the 
kitchen  fire,  if  the  gentleman  wishes  to  dine  at  home,  two 
shillings/' 

"And  fire  r 

"Sixpence  a  scuttle,  sir,  I  charge  for  coals." 

"It's  rather  a  small  scuttle." 

The  landlady  bridles  a  little.  "The  usual  size,  I  think, 
sir."  One  presumes  there  is  a  special  size  in  coal-scuttles 
made  exclusively  for  lodging-house  keepers. 

I  agree  that  while  I  am  about  it  I  may  as  well  see  the 
other  room,  the  third  floor  back.  The  landlady  opens  the 
door  for  me,  but  remains  herself  on  the  landing.  She  is 
a  stout  lady,  and  does  not  wish  to  dwarf  the  apartment  by 
comparison.  The  arrangement  here  does  not  allow  of 
your  ignoring  the  bed.  It  is  the  life  and  soul  of  the  room, 
and  it  declines  to  efface  itself.  Its  only  possible  rival  is 
the  washstand,  straw-coloured;  with  staring  white  basin 
and  jug,  together  with  other  appurtenances.  It  glares 
defiantly  from  its  corner.  "I  know  I'm  small,"  it  seems 
to  say;  "but  I'm  very  useful;  and  I  won't  be  ignored." 
The  remaining  furniture  consists  of  a  couple  of  chairs — 
there  is  no  hypocrisy  about  them :  they  are  not  easy  and 
they  do  not  pretend  to  be  easy;  a  small  chest  of  light- 
painted  drawers  before  the  window,  with  white  china  han- 
dles, upon  which  is  a  tiny  looking-glass;  and,  occupying 
the  entire  remaining  space,  after  allowing  three  square 
feet  for  the  tenant,  when  he  arrives,  an  attenuated  four- 
legged  table  apparently  home-made.  The  only  ornament 
in  the  room  is,  suspended  above  the  fireplace,  a  funeral 
card,  framed  in  beer  corks.  As  the  corpse  introduced  by 
the  ancient  Egyptians  into  their  banquets,  it  is  hung  there 
perhaps  to  remind  the  occupant  of  the  apartment  that  the 
luxuries  and  allurements  of  life  have  their  end ;  or  maybe 
it  consoles  him  in  despondent  moments  with  the  reflection 
that  after  all  he  might  be  worse  off. 

The  rent  of  this  room  is  three-and-sixpence  a  week,  also 


Describes  the  Desert  Island  193 

including  attendance ;  lamp,  as  for  the  first  floor,  eighteen- 
pence ;  but  kitchen  fire  a  shilling. 

"But  why  should  kitchen  fire  for  the  first  floor  be  two 
shillings,  and  for  this  only  one?" 

"Well,  as  a  rule,  sir,  the  first  floor  wants  more  cooking 
done." 

You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  lady,  I  was  forgetting. 
The  gentleman  in  the  third  floor  back !  cooking  for  him  is 
not  a  great  tax  upon  the  kitchen  fire.  His  breakfast,  it  is 
what,  madam,  we  call  plain,  I  think.  His  lunch  he  takes 
out.  You  may  see  him,  walking  round  the  quiet  square, 
up  and  down  the  narrow  street  that,  leading  to  nowhere 
in  particular,  is  between  twelve  and  two  somewhat  de- 
serted. .  He  carries  a  paper  bag,  into  which  at  intervals, 
when  he  is  sure  nobody  is  looking,  his  mouth  disappears. 
From  studying  the  neighbourhood  one  can  guess  what  it 
contains.  Saveloys  hereabouts  are  plentiful  and  only 
twopence  each.  There  are  pie  shops,  where  meat  pies  are 
twopence  and  fruit  pies  a  penny.  The  lady  behind  the^ 
counter,  using  deftly  a  broad,  flat  knife,  lifts  the  little 
dainty  with  one  twist  clean  from  its  tiny  dish  :  it  is  marvel- 
lous, having  regard  to  the  thinness  of  the  pastry,  that  she 
never  breaks  one.  Roley-poley  pudding,  sweet  and  won- 
derfully satisfying,  more  especially  when  cold,  is  but  a 
penny  a  slice.  Peas  pudding,  though  this  is  an  awkward 
thing  to  eat  out  of  a  bag,  is  comforting  upon  cold  days. 
Then  with  his  tea  he  takes  two  eggs  or  a  haddock,  the 
fourpenny  size;  maybe  on  rare  occasions,  a  chop  or 
steak ;  and  you  fry  it  for  him,  madam,  though  every  time 
he  urges  on  you  how  much  he  would  prefer  it  grilled,  for 
fried  in  your  one  frying-pan  its  flavour  becomes  some- 
what confused.  But  maybe  this  is  the  better  for  him, 
for,  shutting  his  eyes  and  trusting  only  to  smell  and  fla- 
vour, he  can  imagine  himself  enjoying  variety.  He  can 
begin  with  herrings,  pass  on  to  liver  and  bacon,  opening 
his  eyes  again  for  a  moment  perceive  that  he  has  now  ar- 
rived  at   the   joint,   and   closing  them   again,   wind   up 


194  P^^l  Kelver 

with  distinct  suggestion  of  toasted  cheese,  thus  avoiding 
monotony.  For  dinner  he  goes  out  again.  Maybe  he  is 
not  hungry,  late  meals  are  a  mistake ;  or,  maybe,  putting 
his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  making  calculations  beneath 
a  lamp-post,  appetite  may  come  to  him.  Then  there  are 
places  cheerful  with  the  sound  of  frizzling  fat,  where  fried 
plaice  brown  and  odorous  may  be  had  for  three  halfpence, 
and  a  handful  of  sliced  potatoes  for  a  penny;  where  for 
f ourpence  succulent  stewed  eels  may  be  discussed ;  vinegar 
ad  lib. ;  or  for  sevenpence — but  these  are  red-letter  even- 
ings— half  a  sheep's  head  may  be  indulged  in,  which  is  a 
supper  fit  for  any  king,  who  happened  to  be  hungry. 

I  explain  that  I  will  discuss  the  matter  with  my  young 
friend  when  he  arrives.  The  landlady  says,  "Certainly, 
sir :"  she  is  used  to  what  she  calls  the  "wandering  Chris- 
tian ;"  and  easing  my  conscience  by  slipping  a  shilling  into 
the  "slavey's"  astonished,  lukewarm  hand,  I  pass  out 
again  into  the  long,  dreary  street,  now  echoing  maybe  to 
the  sad  cry  of  "Muffins !" 

Or  sometimes  of  an  evening,  the  lamp  lighted,  the  rem- 
nants of  the  meat  tea  cleared  away,  the  flickering  firelight 
cosifying  the  dingy  rooms,  I  go  a-visiting.  There  is  no 
need  for  me  to  ring  the  bell,  to  mount  the  stairs. 
Through  the  thin  transparent  walls  I  can  see  you  plainly, 
old  friends  of  mine,  fashions  a  little  changed,  that  is  all. 
We  wore  bell-shaped  trousers;  eight-and-six  to  measure, 
seven-and-six  if  from  stock ;  fastened  our  neckties  in  dash- 
ing style  with  a  horseshoe  pin.  I  think  in  the  matter  of 
waistcoats  we  had  the  advantage  of  you ;  ours  were  gayer, 
braver.  Our  cufifs  and  collars  were  of  paper :  sixpence- 
halfpenny  the  dozen,  three-halfpence  the  pair.  On  Sun- 
day they  were  white  and  glistening;  on  Monday  less  ag- 
gressively obvious ;  on  Tuesday  morning  decidedly  dap- 
pled. But  on  Tuesday  evening,  when  with  natty  cane,  or 
umbrella  neatly  rolled  in  patent  leather  case,  we  took  our 
promenade  down  Oxford  Street — fashionable  hour  nine 
to  ten  p.  m. — we  could  shoot  our  arms  and  cock  our  chins 


Describes  the  Desert  Island  195 

with  the  best.  Your  india-rubber  Hnen  has  its  advantages. 
Storm  does  not  wither  it ;  it  braves  better  the  heat  and  tur- 
moil of  the  day.  The  passing  of  a  sponge!  and  your 
"Dicky"  is  itself  again.  We  had  to  use  bread-crumbs, 
and  so  sacrifice  the  glaze.  Yet  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  for  the  first  few  hours,  at  all  events,  our  paper  was 
more  dazzling. 

For  the  rest  I  see  no  change  in  you,  old  friends.  I 
wave  you  greeting  from  the  misty  street.  God  rest  you, 
gallant  gentlemen,  lonely  and  friendless  and  despised ; 
making  the  best  of  joyless  lives ;  keeping  yourselves  gen- 
teel on  twelve,  fifteen,  or  eighteen  (ah,  but  you  are  pluto- 
crats!) shillings  a  week;  saving  something  even  of  that, 
maybe,  to  help  the  old  mother  in  the  country,  so  proud  of 
her  ''gentleman"  son  who  has  book  learning  and  who  is 
"something  in  the  City."  May  nothing  you  dismay. 
Bullied,  and  badgered,  and  baited  from  nine  to  six  though 
you  may  be,  from  then  till  bedtime  you  are  rorty  young 
dogs.  The  half-guinea  topper,  "as  worn  by  the  Prince 
of  Wales"  (ah,  how  many  a  meal  has  it  not  cost!), 
warmed  before  the  fire,  brushed  and  polished  and  coaxed, 
shines  resplendent.  The  second  pair  of  trousers  are 
drawn  from  beneath  the  bed;  in  the  gaslight,  with  well- 
marked  crease  from  top  to  toe,  they  wiH  pass  for  new. 
A  pleasant  evening  to  you!  May  your  cheap  necktie 
make  all  the  impression  your  soul  can  desire !  May  your 
penny  cigar  be  mistaken  for  Havana !  May  the  barmaid 
charm  your  simple  heart  by  addressing  you  as  "Baby!" 
May  some  sweet  shop-girl  throw  a  kindly  glance  at  you, 
inviting  you  to  walk  with  her !  May  she  snigger  at  your 
humour;  may  other  dogs  cast  envious  looks  at  you,  and 
may  no  harm  come  of  it! 

You  dreamers  of  dreams,  you  who  while  your  com- 
panions play  and  sleep  will  toil  upward  in  the  night !  You 
have  read  Mr.  Smiles'  "Self-Help,"  Longfellow's  "Psalm 
of  Life,"  and  so  strengthened  attack  with  confidence 
"French  Without  a  Master,"  "Bookkeeping  in  Six  Les- 


196  Paul  Kelver 

sons/'  With  a  sigh  to  yourselves  you  turn  aside  from  the 
alluring  streets,  from  the  bright,  bewitching  eyes,  into  the 
stuffy  air  of  Birkbeck  Institutions,  Polytechnic  Schools. 
May  success  compensate  you  for  your  youth  devoid  of 
pleasure !  May  the  partner's  chair  you  seen  in  visions  be 
yours  before  the  end !  May  you  live  one  day  in  Clapham 
in  a  twelve-roomed  house ! 

And,  after  all,  we  have  our  moments,  have  we  not? 
The  Saturday  night  at  the  play.  The  hours  of  waiting, 
they  are  short.  We  converse  with  kindred  souls  of  the 
British  Drama,  its  past  and  future :  we  have  our  views. 
We  dream  of  Florence  This,  Kate  That;  in  a  little  while 
we  shall  see  her.  Ah,  could  she  but  know  how  we  loved 
her!  Her  photo  is  on  our  mantelpiece,  transforming  the 
dismal  little  room  into  a  shrine.  The  poem  we  have  so 
often  commenced!  when  it  is  finished  we  will  post  it  to 
her.  At  least  she  will  acknowledge  its  receipt;  we  can 
kiss  the  paper  her  hand  has  rested  on.  The  great  doors 
groan,  then  quiver.  Ah,  the  wild  thrill  of  that  moment ! 
Now  push  for  all  you  are  worth  :  charge,  wriggle,  squirm ! 
It  is  an  epitome  of  life.  We  are  through — collarless, 
panting,  pummelled  from  top  to  toe:  but  what  of  that? 
Upward,  still  upward ;  then  downward  with  leaps  at  risk 
of  our  neck,  from  bench  to  bench  through  the  gloom.  We 
have  gained  the  front  row!  Would  we  exchange  sensa- 
tions with  the  stallite,  strolling  languidly  to  his  seat? 
The  extravagant  dinner  once  a  week !  We  banquet  a  la 
Frangais,  in  Soho,  for  one-and-six,  including  wine. 
Does  Tortoni  ever  give  his  customers  a  repast  they  enjoy 
more?     I  trow  not. 

My  first  lodging  was  an  attic  in  a  square  the  other  side 
of  Blackfriars  Bridge.  The  rent  of  the  room,  if  I  remem- 
ber rightly,  was  three  shillings  a  week  with  cooking,  half- 
a-crown  without.  I  purchased  a  methylated  spirit  stove 
with  kettle  and  frying-pan,  and  took  it  without. 

Old  Hasluck  would  have  helped  me  willingly,  and  there 
were  others  to  whom  I  might  have  appealed,  but  a  boy's 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         197 

pride  held  me  back.  I  would  make  my  way  alone,  win  my 
place  in  the  world  by  myself.  To  Hal,  knowing  he  would 
sympathise  with  me,  I  confided  the  truth. 

"Had  your  mother  lived,"  he  told  me,  "I  should  have 
had  something  to  say  on  the  subject.  Of  course,  I  knew 
what  had  happened,  but  as  it  is — well,  you  need  not  be 
afraid,  I  shall  not  offer  you  help ;  indeed,  I  should  refuse 
it  were  you  to  ask.  Put  your  Carlyle  in  your  pocket :  he 
is  not  all  voices,  but  he  is  the  best  maker  of  men  I  know. 
The  great  thing  to  learn  of  life  is  not  to  be  afraid  of  it." 

**Look  me  up  now  and  then,"  he  added,  *'and  we'll  talk 
about  the  stars,  the  future  of  Socialism,  and  the  Woman 
Question — anything  you  like  except  about  yourself  and 
your  twopenny-half-penny  affairs." 

From  another  it  would  have  sounded  brutal,  but  I  un- 
derstood him.  And  so  we  shook  hands  and  parted  for 
longer  than  either  of  us  at  the  time  expected.  The 
Franco-German  War  broke  out  a  few  weeks  later  on,  and 
Hal,  the  love  of  adventure  always  strong  within  him,  vol- 
unteered his  services,  which  were  accepted.  It  was  some 
years  before  we  met  again. 

On  the  door-post  of  a  house  in  Farringdon  Street,  not 
far  from  the  Circus,  stood  in  those  days  a  small  brass 
plate,  announcing  that  the  "Ludgate  News  Rooms"  occu- 
pied the  third  and  fourth  floors,  and  that  the  admission  to 
the  same  was  one  penny.  We  were  a  seedy  company 
that  every  morning  crowded  into  these  rooms :  clerks, 
shopmen,  superior  artisans,  travellers,  warehousemen — all 
of  us  out  of  work.  Most  of  us  were  young,  but  with  us 
was  mingled  a  sprinkling  of  elder  men,  and  these  latter 
were  always  the  saddest  and  most  silent  of  this  little  whis- 
pering army  of  the  down-at-heel.  Roughly  speaking,  we 
were  divided  into  two  groups :  the  newcomers,  cheery, 
confident.  These  would  flit  from  newspaper  to  newspaper 
with  buzz  of  pleasant  anticipation,  select  their  advertise- 
ment as  one  choosing  some  dainty  out  of  a  rich  and  varied 
menu  card,  and  replying  to  it  as  one  conferring  favour. 


198  Paul  Kelver 

"Dear  Sif, — In  reply  to  your  advertisement  in  to-day's 
Standard,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  accept  the  post  vacant  in 
your  office.  I  am  of  good  appearance  and  address.  I  am 
an  excellent — "  It  was  really  marvellous  the  quality  and 
number  of  our  attainments.  French !  we  wrote  and  spoke 
it  fluently,  a  la  Ahn.  German!  of  this  we  possessed  a 
slighter  knowledge,  it  was  true,  but  sufficient  for  mere 
purposes  of  commerce.  Bookkeeping !  arithmetic !  geom- 
etry !  we  played  with  them.  The  love  of  work !  it  was  a 
passion  with  us.  Our  moral  character!  it  would  have 
adorned  a  Free  Kirk  Elder.  "I  could  call  on  you  to-mor- 
row or  Friday  between  eleven  and  one,  or  on  Saturday 
any  time  up  till  two.  Salary  required,  two  guineas  a 
week.     An  early  answer  will  oblige.     Yours  truly." 

The  old  stagers  did  not  buzz.  Hour  after  hour  they 
sat  writing,  steadily,  methodically,  with  day  by  day  less 
hope  and  heavier  fears: 

"Sir,— Your  advt.  in  to-day's  D.  T.  I  am—"  of  such 
and  such  an  age.  List  of  qualifications  less  lengthy,  set 
forth  with  more  modesty;  object  desired  being  air  of  ver- 
isimilitude.— "If  you  decide  to  engage  me  I  will  endeav- 
our to  give  you  every  satisfaction.  Any  time  you  like  to 
appoint  I  will  call  on  you.  I  should  not  ask  a  high  salary 
to  start  with.      Yours  obediently." 

Dozens  of  the  first  letter,  hundreds  of  the  second,  I 
wrote  with  painful  care,  pen  carefully  chosen,  the  one-inch 
margin  down  the  left  hand  side  of  the  paper  first  portioned 
off  with  dots.  To  three  or  four  I  received  a  curt  reply,  in- 
structing me  to  call.  But  the  shyness  that  had  stood  so 
in  my  way  during  the  earlier  half  of  my  school  days  had 
now,  I  know  not  why,  returned  upon  me,  hampering  me 
at  every  turn.  A  shy  child  grown-up  folks  at  all  events 
can  understand  and  forgive ;  but  a  shy  young  man  is  not 
unnaturally  regarded  as  a  fool.  I  gave  the  impression 
of  being  awkward,  stupid,  sulky.  The  more  I  strove 
against  my  temperament  the  worse  I  became.     My  at- 


Describes  the  Desert  Island  199 

tempts  to  be  at  my  ease,  to  assert  myself,  resulted — I  could 
see  it  myself — only  in  rudeness. 

*'Well,  I  have  got  to  see  one  or  two  others.  We  will 
write  and  let  you  know,"  was  the  conclusion  of  each  in- 
terview, and  the  end,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  of  the 
enterprise. 

My  few  pounds,  guard  them  how  I  would,  were  dwind- 
ling rapidly.  Looking  back,  it  is  easy  enough  to  regard 
one's  early  struggles  from  a  humorous  point  of  view. 
One  knows  the  story,  it  all  ended  happily.  But  at  the 
time  there  is  no  means  of  telling  whether  one's  biography 
is  going  to  be  comedy  or  tragedy.  There  were  moments 
when  I  felt  confident  it  was  going  to  be  the  latter.  Occa- 
sionally, when  one  is  feeling  well,  it  is  not  unpleasant  to 
contemplate  with  pathetic  sympathy  one's  own  death-bed. 
One  thinks  of  the  friends  and  relations  who  at  last  will 
understand  and  regret  one,  be  sorry  they  had  not  be- 
haved themselves  better.  But  myself,  there  was  no  one  to 
regret.  I  felt  very  small,  very  helpless.  The  world  was 
big.  I  feared  it  might  walk  over  me,  trample  me  down, 
never  seeing  me.     I  seemed  unable  to  attract  its  attention. 

One  morning  I  found  waiting  for  me  at  the  Reading 
Room  another  of  the  usual  missives.  It  ran :  "Will  Mr.  P. 
Kelver  call  at  the  above  address  to-morrow  morning  be- 
tween ten-thirty  and  eleven.  The  paper  was  headed :  *'Lott 
and  Co.,  Indian  Commission  Agents,  Aldersgate  Street." 
Without  much  hope  I  returned  to  my  lodgings,  changed 
my  clothes,  donned  my  silk  hat,  took  my  one  pair  of 
gloves,  drew  its  silk  case  over  my  holey  umbrella ;  and  so 
equipped  for  fight  with  Fate  made  my  way  to  Aldersgate 
Street.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  being  too  soon, 
I  walked  up  and  down  the  pavement  outside  the  house, 
gaziiig  at  the  second-floor  windows,  behind  which,  so  the 
door-plate  had  informed  me,  were  the  offices  of  Lott  & 
Co.  I  could  not  recall  their  advertisement,  nor  my  reply 
to  it.  The  firm  was  evidently  not  in  a  very  flourishing 
condition.     I  wondered  idly  what  salary  they  would  offer. 


200  Paul  Kelver 

For  a  moment  I  dreamt  of  a  Cheeryble  Brother  asking  me 
kindly  if  I  thought  I  could  do  with  thirty  shillings  a  week 
as  a  beginning ;  but  the  next  I  recalled  my  usual  fate,  and 
considered  whether  it  was  even  worth  while  to  climb  the 
stairs,  go  through  what  to  me  was  a  painful  ordeal,  merely 
to  be  impressed  again  with  the  sense  of  my  own  worthless- 
ness. 

A  fine  rain  began  to  fall.  I  did  not  wish  to  unroll  my 
umbrella,  yet  felt  nervous  for  my  hat.  It  was  five  minutes 
to  the  half  hour.  Listlessly  I  crossed  the  road  and 
mounted  the  bare  stairs  to  the  second  floor.  Two  doors 
faced  me,  one  marked  'Trivate."  I  tapped  Hghtly  at  the 
second.  Not  hearing  any  response,  after  a  second  or  two 
I  tapped  again.  A  sound  reached  me,  but  it  was  unin- 
telHgible.  I  knocked  yet  again,  still  louder.  This  time 
I  heard  a  reply  in  a  shrill,  plaintive  tone : 

"Oh,  do  come  in." 

The  tone  was  one  of  pathetic  entreaty.  I  turned  the 
handle  and  entered.  It  was  a  small  room,  dimly  lighted 
by  a  dirty  window,  the  bottom  half  of  which  was  rendered 
opaque  by  tissue  paper  pasted  to  its  panes.  The  place 
suggested  a  village  shop  rather  than  an  office.  Pots  of 
jam,  jars  of  pickles,  bottles  of  wine,  biscuit  tins,  parcels 
of  drapery,  boxes  of  candles,  bars  of  soap,  boots,  packets 
of  stationery,  boxes  of  cigars,  tinned  provisions,  guns, 
cartridges — things  sufficient  to  furnish  a  desert  island 
littered  every  available  corner.  At  a  small  desk  under  the 
window  sat  a  youth  with  a  remarkably  small  body  and  a 
remarkably  large  head;  so  disproportionate  were  the  two 
I  should  hardly  have  been  surprised  had  he  put  up  his 
hands  and  taken  it  off.  Half  in  the  room  and  half  out,  I 
paused. 

"Is  this  Lott  &  Co.  ?"  I  enquired. 

"No,"  he  answered ;  "it's  a  room."  One  eye  was  fixed 
upon  me,  dull  and  glassy;  it  never  bHnked,  it  never  wa- 
vered. With  the  help  of  the  other  he  continued  his  writ- 
ing. 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         201 

"I  mean/'  I  explained,  coming  entirely  into  the  room, 
''are  these  the  offices  of  Lott  &  Co.  ?" 

"It's  one  of  them,"  he  replied ;  "the  back  one.  If  you're 
really  anxious  for  a  job,  you  can  shut  the  door." 

I  complied  with  his  suggestion,  and  then  announced 
that  I  was  Mr.  Kelver — Mr.  Paul  Kelver. 

"Minikin's  my  name,"  he  returned,  "Sylvanus  Minikin. 
You  don't  happen  by  any  chance  to  know  what  you've 
come  for,  I  suppose?" 

Looking  at  his  body,  my  inclination  was  to  pick  my  way 
among  the  goods  that  covered  the  floor  and  pull  his  ears 
for  him.  From  his  grave  and  massive  face,  he  might,  for 
all  I  knew,  be  the  head  clerk. 

"I  have  called  to  see  Mr.  Lott,"  I  replied,  with  dignity ; 
"I  have  an  appointment."  I  produced  the  letter  from  my 
pocket,  and  leaning  across  a  sewing-machine,  I  handed  it 
to  him  for  his  inspection.  Having  read  it,  he  suddenly 
took  from  its  socket  the  eye  with  which  he  had  been 
hitherto  regarding  me,  and  proceeding  to  polish  it  upon 
his  pocket  handkerchief,  turned  upon  me  his  other.  Hav- 
ing satisfied  himself,  he  handed  me  back  my  letter. 

"Want  my  advice  ?"  he  asked. 

I  thought  it  might  be  useful  to  me,  so  replied  in  the 
affirmative. 

"Hook  it,"  was  his  curt  counsel. 

"Why?"  I  asked.     "Isn't  he  a  good  employer?" 

Replacing  his  glass  eye,  he  turned  again  to  his  work. 
"If  employment  is  what  you  want,"  answered  Mr.  Mini- 
kin, "you'll  get  it.  Best  employer  in  London.  He'll  keep 
you  going  for  twenty-four  hours  a  day,  and  then  offer  you 
overtime  at  half  salary." 

"I  must  get  something  to  do,"  I  confessed. 

"Sit  down  then,"  suggested  Mr.  Minikin.  "Rest  while 
you  can." 

I  took  the  chair ;  it  was  the  only  chair  in  the  room,  with 
the  exception  of  the  one  Minikin  was  sitting  on. 


202  Paul  Kelver 

"Apart  from  his  being  a  bit  of  a  driver/'  I  asked,  "what 
sort  of  a  man  is  he  ?     Is  he  pleasant  ?" 

"Never  saw  him  put  out  but  once,"  answered  Minikin. 

It  sounded  well.     "When  was  that?"  I  asked. 

"All  the  time  I've  known  him." 

My  spirits  continued  to  sink.  Had  I  been  left  alone 
with  Minikin  much  longer,  I  might  have  ended  by  follow- 
ing his  advice,  "hooking  it"  before  Mr.  Lott  arrived.  But 
the  next  moment  I  heard  the  other  door  open,  and  some 
one  entered  the  private  office.  Then  the  bell  rang,  and 
Minikin  disappeared,  leaving  the  communicating  door 
ajar  behind  him.  The  conversation  that  I  overheard  was 
as  follows : 

"Why  isn't  Mr.  Skeat  here?" 

"Because  he  hasn't  come." 

"Where  are  the  letters?" 

"Under  your  nose." 

"How  dare  you  answer  me  like  that?" 

"Well,  it's  the  truth.     They  are  under  your  nose." 

"Did  you  give  Thorneycrof t's  man  my  message  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  he  answer?" 

"Said  you  were  a  liar." 

'^Oh,  he  did,  did  he !     What  did  you  reply?" 

"Asked  him  to  tell  me  something  I  didn't  know." 

"Thought  that  clever,  didn't  you?" 

"Not  bad." 

Whatever  faults  might  be  laid  to  Mr.  Lott's  door,  he  at 
least,  I  concluded,  possesssed  the  virtue  of  self-control. 

"Anybody  been  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Who?" 

"Mr.  Kelver— Mr.  Paul  Kelver." 

"Kelver,  Kelver.     Who's  Kelver?" 

"Know  what  he  is — a  fool." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"He's  come  after  the  place." 


Describes  the  Desert  Island 


203 


"Is  he  there?" 

"Yes." 

"What's  he  Hke?" 

"Not  bad  looking;  fair- 


"Idiot!     I  mean  is  he  smart?" 
"Just  at  present — got  all  his  Sunday  clothes  on." 
"Send  him  in  to  me.     Don't  go,  don't  go." 
"How  can  I  send  him  in  to  you  if  I  don't  go?" 
"Take  these.     Have  you  finished  those  bills  of  lading?'* 
"No." 

"Good  God !  when  will  you  have  finished  them  ?" 
"Half  an  hour  after  I  have  begun  them." 
"Get  out,  get  out!       Has  that  door  been  open  all  the 
time?" 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  it's  opened  itself." 
Minikin    re-entered    with    papers    in    his    hand.     "In 
you  go,"  he  said.     "Heaven  help  you !"     And  I  passed  in 
and  closed  the  door  behind  me. 

The  room  was  a  replica  of  the  one  I  had  just  left.  If 
possible,  it  was  more  crowded,  more  packed  with  miscel- 
laneous articles.  I  picked  my  way  through  these  and  ap- 
proached the  desk.  Mr.  Lott  was  a  small,  dingy-looking 
man,  with  very  dirty  hands,  and  small,  restless  eyes.  I 
was  glad  that  he  was  not  imposing,  or  my  shyness  might 
have  descended  upon  me ;  as  it  was,  I  felt  better  able  to  do 
myself  justice.  At  once  he  plunged  into  the  business  by 
seizing  and  waving  in  front  of  my  eyes  a  bulky  bundle  of 
letters  tied  together  with  red  tape. 

"One  hundred  and  seventeen  answers  to  an  advertise- 
ment," he  cried  with  evident  satisfaction,  "in  one  day! 
That  shows  you  the  state  of  the  labour  market !" 
I  agreed  it  was  appalling. 

"Poor  devils,  poor  devils !"  murmured  Mr.  Lott,  "what 
will  become  of  them?  Some  of  them  will  starve.  Ter- 
rible death,  starvation,  Kelver;  takes  such  a  long  time — • 
especially  when  you're  young." 

Here  also  I  found  myself  in  accord  with  him. 


204  Paul  Kelver 

•    "Living  with  your  parents  ?" 

I  explained  to  him  my  situation. 

"Any  friends  ?" 

I  informed  him  I  was  entirely  dependent  upon  my  own 
efforts. 

"Any  money?     Anything  coming  in?" 

I  told  him  I  had  a  few  pounds  still  remaining  to  me, 
but  that  after  that  was  gone  I  should  be  penniless. 

"And  to  think,  Kelver,  that  there  are  hundreds,  thou- 
sands of  young  fellows  precisely  in  your  position !  How 
sad,  how  very  sad !  How  long  have  you  been  looking  for 
a  berth?" 

"A  month,"  I  answered  him. 

"I  thought  as  much.  Do  you  know  why  I  selected  your 
letter  out  of  the  whole  batch  ?" 

I  replied  I  hoped  it  was  because  he  judged  from  it  I 
should  prove  satisfactory. 

"Because  it's  the  worst  written  of  them  all."  He 
pushed  it  across  to  me.     "Look  at  it.     Awful,  isn't  it?" 

I  admitted  that  handwriting  was  not  my  strong  point. 

"Nor  spelling  either,"  he  added,  and  with  truth.  "Who 
do  you  think  will  engage  you  if  I  don't?" 

"Nobody,"  he  continued,  without  waiting  for  me  to  re- 
ply. "A  month  hence  you  will  still  be  looking  for  a  berth, 
and  a  month  after  that.  Now,  I'm  going  to  do  you  a 
good  turn;  save  you  from  destitution;  give  you  a  start 
in  life." 

I  expressed  my  gratitude. 

He  waived  it  aside.  "That  is  my  notion  of  philan- 
thropy: help  those  that  nobody  else  will  help.  That 
young  fellow  in  the  other  room — he  isn't  a  bad  worker, 
he's  smart,  but  he's  impertinent." 

I  murmured  that  I  had  gathered  so  much. 

"Doesn't  mean  to  be,  can't  help  it.  Noticed  his  trick 
of  looking  at  you  with  his  glass  eye,  keeping  the  other 
turned  away  from  you?" 

I  replied  that  I  had. 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         205 

"Always  does  it.  Used  to  irritate  his  last  employer  to 
madness.  Said  to  him  one  day :  'Do  turn  that  signal  lamp 
of  yours  off,  Minikin,  and  look  at  me  with  your  real  eye.' 
What  do  you  think  he  answered?  That  it  was  the  only 
one  he'd  got,  and  that  he  didn't  want  to  expose  it  to 
shocks.  Wouldn't  have  mattered  so  much  if  it  hadn't 
been  one  of  the  ugliest  men  in  London." 

I  murmured  my  indignation. 

''I  put  up  with  him.  Nobody  else  would.  The  poor 
fellow  must  live." 

I  expressed  admiration  at  Mr.  Lott's  humanity. 

*'You  don't  mind  work?  You're  not  one  of  those  good- 
for-nothings  who  sleep  all  day  and  wake  up  when  it's  time 
to  go  home?" 

I  assured  him  that  in  whatever  else  I  might  fail  I  could 
promise  him  industry. 

''With  some  of  them,"  complained  Mr.  Lott,  in  a  tone  of 
bitterness,  "it's  nothing  but  play,  girls,  gadding  about 
the  streets.  Work,  business — oh,  no.  I  may  go  bankrupt ; 
my  wife  and  children  may  go  into  the  workhouse.  No 
thought  for  me,  the  man  that  keeps  them,  feeds  them, 
clothes  them.     How  much  salary  do  you  want?" 

I  hesitated.  I  gathered  this  was  not  a  Cheeryble 
Brother;  it  would  be  necessary  to  be  moderate  in  one's 
demands.  "Five-and- twenty  shillings  a  week,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

He  repeated  the  figure  in  a  scream.  "Five-and-twenty 
shillings  for  writing  like  that!  And  can't  spell  commis- 
sion! Don't  know  anything  about  the  business.  Five- 
and-twenty ! — Tell  you  what  I'll  do :  I'll  give  you  twelve." 

"But  I  can't  live  on  twelve,"  I  explained. 

"Can't  live  on  twelve!  Do  you  know  why?  Because 
you  don't  know  how  to  live.  I  know  you  all.  One  veal 
and  ham  pie,  one  roley-poley,  one  Dutch  cheese  and  a  pint 
of  bitter." 

His  recital  made  my  mouth  water. 

"You  overload  your  stomachs,  then  you  can't  work. 


2o6  Paul  Kelver 

Half  the  diseases  you  young  fellows  suffer  from  are 
brought  about  by  overeating." 

"Now,  you  take  my  advice,"  continued  Mr.  Lott;  "try 
vegetarianism.  In  the  morning,  a  little  oatmeal.  Won- 
derfully strengthening  stuff,  oatmeal :  look  at  the  Scotch. 
For  dinner,  beans.  Why,  do  you  know  there's  more  nour- 
ishment in  half  a  pint  of  lentil  beans  than  in  a  pound  of 
beefsteak — more  gluten.  That's  what  you  want,  more 
gluten;  no  corpses,  no -dead  bodies.  Why,  I've  known 
young  fellows,  vegetarians,  who  have  lived  like  fighting 
cocks  on  sevenpence  a  day.  Seven  times  seven  are  forty- 
nine.     How  much  do  you  pay  for  your  room?" 

I  told  him. 

"Four-and-a-penny  and  two-and-six  makes  six-and- 
seven.  That  leaves  you  five  and  fivepence  for  mere  fool- 
ery.    Good  God !  what  more  do  you  want  ?" 

"I'll  take  eighteen,  sir,"  I  answered.  "I  can't  really 
manage  on  less." 

"Very  well,  I  won't  beat  you  down,"  he  answered. 
"Fifteen  shillings  a  week." 

"I  said  eighteen,"  I  persisted. 

"Well,  and  I  said  fifteen,"  he  retorted,  somewhat  in- 
dignant at  the  quibbling.  "That's  splitting  the  difference, 
isn't  it  ?     I  can't  be  fairer  than  that." 

I  dared  not  throw  away  the  one  opportunity  that  had 
occurred.  Anything  was  better  than  return  to  the  Read- 
ing Rooms,  and  the  empty  days  full  of  despair.  I  ac- 
cepted, and  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  come  the  following 
Monday  morning. 

"Nabbed  ?"  was  Minikin's  enquiry  on  my  return  to  the 
back  office  for  my  hat. 

I  nodded. 

"What's  he  wasting  on  you  ?" 

"Fifteen  shillings  a  week,"  I  whispered. 

"Felt  sure  somehow  that  he'd  take  a  liking  to  you,"  an- 
swered Minikin.  "Don't  be  ungrateful  and  look  thin  on 
it." 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         207 

Outside  the  door  I  heard  Mr.  Lett's  shrill  voice  de- 
manding to  know  where  postage  stamps  were  to  be  found. 

"At  the  Post-office,"  was  Minikin's  reply. 

The  hours  were  long — in  fact,  we  had  no  office  hours; 
we  got  away  when  we  could,  which  was  rarely  before 
seven  or  eight — ^but  my  work  was  interesting.  It  con- 
sisted of  buying  for  unfortunate  clients  in  India  or  the 
Colonies  anything  they  might  happen  to  want,  from  a 
stage  coach  to  a  pot  of  marmalade;  packing  it  and  ship- 
ping it  across  to  them.  Our  "commission"  was  anything 
they  could  be  persuaded  to  pay  over  and  above  the  value 
of  the  article.  I  was  not  much  interfered  with.  There 
was  that  to  be  said  for  Lott  &  Co.,  so  long  as  the  work 
was  done  he  was  quite  content  to  leave  one  to  one's  own 
way  of  doing  it.  And  hastening  through  the  busy  streets, 
bargaining  in  shop  or  warehouse,  bustling  important  in 
and  out  the  swarming  docks,  I  often  thanked  my  stars 
that  I  was  not  as  some  poor  two-pound-a-week  clerk 
chained  to  a  dreary  desk. 

The  fifteen  shillings  a  week  was  a  tight  fit ;  but  that  was 
not  my  trouble.  Reduce  your  denominator — you  know 
the  quotation.  I  found  it  no  philosophical  cant,  but  a 
practical  solution  of  life.  My  food  cost  me  on  the  aver- 
age a  shilling  a  day.  If  more  of  us  limited  our  commis- 
sariat bill  to  the  same  figure,  there  would  be  less  dyspepsia 
abroad.  Generally  I  cooked  my  own  meals  in  my  own 
frying-pan ;  but  occasionally  I  would  indulge  myself  with 
a  more  orthodox  dinner  at  a  cook  shop,  or  tea  with  hot 
buttered  toast  at  a  coffee-shop;  and  but  for  the  greasy 
table-cloth  and  the  dirty-handed  waiter,  such  would  have 
been  even  greater  delights.  The  shilling  a  week  for 
amusements  afforded  me  at  least  one,  occasionally  two, 
visits  to  the  thratre,  for  in  those  days  there  were  Paradises 
where  for  sixpence  one  could  be  a  god.  Fourpence  a 
week  on  tobacco  gave  me  half-a-dozen  cigarettes  a  day; 
I  have  spent  more  on  smoke  and  derived  less  satisfaction. 
Dress  was  my  greatest  difficulty.     One  anxiety  in  life  the 


2o8  Paul  Kelver 

poor  man  is  saved:  he  knows  not  the  haunting-  sense  of 
debt.  My  tailor  never  dunned  me.  His  principle  was 
half-a-crown  down  on  receipt  of  order,  the  balance  on  the 
handing  over  of  the  goods.  No  system  is  perfect;  the 
method  avoided  friction,  it  is  true ;  yet  on  the  other  hand 
it  was  annoying  to  be  compelled  to  promenade,  come  Sun- 
days, in  shiny  elbows  and  frayed  trousers,  knowing  all 
the  while  that  finished,  waiting,  was  a  suit  in  which  one 
mig'ht  have  made  one's  mark — had  only  one  shut  one's 
eyes  passing  that  pastry-cook's  window  on  pay-day. 
Surely  there  should  be  a  sumptuary  law  compelling  pas- 
try-cooks to  deal  in  cellars  or  behind  drawn  blinds. 

Were  it  because  of  its  mere  material  hardships  that  to 
this  day  I  think  of  that  period  of  my  life  with  a  shudder, 
I  should  not  here  confess  to  it.  I  was  alone^  I  knew  not  a 
living  soul  to  whom  I  dared  to  speak,  who  cared  to  speak 
to  me.  For  those  first  twelve  months  after  my  mother's 
death  I  lived  alone,  thought  alone,  felt  alone.  In  the 
morning,  during  the  busy  day,  it  was  possible  to  bear ;  but 
in  the  evenings  the  sense  of  desolation  gripped  me  Hke  a 
physical  pain.  The  summer  evenings  came  again,  bring- 
ing with  them  the  long,  lingering  light  so  laden  with  mel- 
ancholy. I  would  walk  into  the  Parks  and,  sitting  there, 
watch  with  hungry  eyes  the  men  and  women,  boys  and 
girls,  moving  all  around  me,  talking,  laughing,  interested 
in  one  another ;  feeling  myself  some  speechless  ghost,  see- 
ing but  not  seen,  crying  to  the  living  with  a  voice  they 
heard  not.  Sometimes  a  solitary  figure  would  pass  by  and 
glance  back  at  me;  some  lonely  creature  like  myself 
longing  for  human  sympathy.  In  the  teeming  city  must 
have  been  thousands  such — young  men  and  women  to 
whom  a  friendly  ear,  a  kindly  voice,  would  have  been  as 
the  water  of  life.  Each  imprisoned  in  his  solitary  cell  of 
shyness,  we  looked  at  one  another  through  the  grating 
with  condoling  eyes ;  further  than  that  was  forbidden  to 
us.  Once,  in  Kensington  Gardens,  a  woman  turned,  then 
slowly  retracing  her  steps,  sat  down  beside  me  on  the 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         209 

bench.  Neither  of  us  spoke;  had  I  done  so  she  would 
have  risen  and  moved  away ;  yet  there  was  understanding 
between  us.  To  each  of  us  it  was  some  comfort  to  sit 
thus  for  a  little  while  beside  the  other.  Had  she  poured 
out  her  heart  to  me,  she  could  have  told  me  nothing  more 
than  I  knew:  "I,  too,  am  lonely,  friendless;  I,  too,  long 
for  the  sound  of  a  voice,  the  touch  of  a  hand.  It  is  hard 
for  you,  it  is  harder  still  for  me,  a  girl ;  shut  out  from  the 
bright  world  that  laughs  around  me;  denied  the  right  of 
youth  to  joy  and  pleasure ;  denied  the  right  of  womanhood 
to  love  and  tenderness." 

The  footsteps  to  and  fro  grew  fewer.  She  moved  to 
rise.  Stirred  by  an  impulse,  I  stretched  out  my  hand, 
then  seeing  the  flush  upon  her  face,  drew  it  back  hastily. 
But  the  next  moment,  changing  her  mind,  she  held  hers 
out  to  me,  and  I  took  it.  It  was  the  first  clasp  of  a  hand 
I  had  felt  since  six  months  before  I  had  said  good-bye  to 
Hal.  She  turned  and  walked  quickly  away.  I  stood 
watching  her;  she  never  looked  round,  and  I  never  saw 
her  again. 

I  take  no  credit  to  myself  for  keeping  straight,  as  it  is 
termed,  during  these  days.  For  good  or  evil,  my  shyness 
prevented  my  taking  part  in  the  flirtations  of  the  streets. 
Whether  inviting  eyes  were  ever  thrown  to  me  as  to 
others,  I  cannot  say.  Sometimes,  fancying  so — hoping 
so,  I  would  follow.  Yet  never  could  I  summon  up  suffi- 
cient resolution  to  face  the  possible  rebuff  before  some 
less  timid  swain  would  swoop  down  upon  the  quarry. 
Then  I  would  hurry  on,  cursing  myself  for  the  poorness 
of  my  spirit,  fancying  mocking  contempt  in  the  laughter 
that  followed  me. 

On  a  Sunday  I  would  rise  early  and  take  long  solitary 
walks  into  the  country.  One  winter's  day — I  remember 
it  was  on  the  road  between  Edgware  and  Stanmore — 
there  issued  from  a  by-road  a  little  ahead  of  me  a  party 
of  boys  and  girls,  young  people  about  my  own  age,  bound 
evidently  on  a  skating  expedition.     I  could  hear  the  musi- 


2IO  Paul  Kelver 

cal  ring  of  their  blades,  clattering  as  they  walked,  and 
the  sound  of  their  merry  laughter  so  clear  and  bell-like 
through  the  frosty  air.  And  an  aching  anguish  fell  upon 
me.  I  felt  a  mad  desire  to  run  after  them,  to  plead  with 
them  to  let  me  walk  with  them  a  little  way,  to  let  me  laugh 
and  talk  with  them.  Every  now  and  then  they  would 
pirouette  to  cry  some  jest  to  one  another.  I  could  see 
their  faces :  the  girls'  so  sweetly  alluring,  framed  by  their 
dainty  hats  and  furs,  the  bright  colour  in  their  cheeks, 
the  light  in  their  teasing  eyes.  A  little  further  on  they 
turned  aside  into  a  by-lane,  and  I  stood  at  the  corner 
listening  till  the  last  echo  of  their  joyous  voices  died  away, 
and  on  a  stone  that  still  remains  standing  there  I  sat  down 
and  sobbed. 

I  would  walk  about  the  streets  always  till  very  late.  I 
dreaded  the  echoing  clang  of  the  little  front  door  when  I 
closed  it  behind  me,  the  climbing  of  the  silent  stairs,  the 
solitude  that  waited  for  me  in  my  empty  room.  It  would 
rise  and  come  towards  me  like  some  living  thing,  kissing 
me  with  cold  lips.  Often,  unable  to  bear  the  closeness 
of  its  presence,  I  would  creep  out  into  the  streets. 
There,  even  though  it  followed  me,  I  was  not  alone 
with  it.  Sometimes  I  would  pace  them  the  whole 
night,  sharing  them  with  the  other  outcasts  while  the 
city  slept. 

Occasionally,  during  these  nightly  wanderings  would 
come  to  me  moments  of  exaltation  when  fear  fell  from  me 
and  my  blood  would  leap  with  joy  at  prospect  of  the  fierce 
struggle  opening  out  before  me.  Then  it  was  the  ghostly 
city  sighing  round  me  that  seemed  dead,  I  the  only  living 
thing  real  among  a  world  of  shadows.  In  long,  echoing 
streets  I  would  laugh  and  shout.  Misunderstanding  po- 
licemen would  turn  their  bull's-eyes  on  me,  gruffly  give 
me  practical  advice :  they  knew  not  who  I  was !  I  stood 
the  centre  of  a  vast  galanty-show :  the  phantom  houses 
came  and  went ;  from  some  there  shone  bright  lights ;  the 
doors  were  open,  and  little  figures  flitted  in  and  out,  the 


Describes  the  Desert  Island         211 

tiny  coaches  glided  to  and  fro,  manikins  grotesque  but 
pitiful  crept  across  the  star-lit  curtain. 

Then  the  mood  would  change.  The  city,  grim  and 
vast,  stretched  round  me  endless.  I  crawled,  a  mere  atom, 
within  its  folds,  helpless,  insignificant,  absurd.  The 
houseless  forms  that  shared  my  vigil  were  my  fellows. 
What  were  we?  Animalcule  upon  its  bosom,  that  it  saw 
not,  heeded  not.  For  company  I  would  mingle  with 
them :  ragged  men,  frowsy  women,  ageless  youths,  gath- 
ered round  the  red  glow  of  some  coffee  stall. 

Rarely  would  we  speak  to  one  another.  More  like  ani- 
mals we  browsed  there,  sipping  the  halfpenny  cup  of  hot 
water  coloured  with  coffee  grounds  (at  least  it  was 
warm),  munching  the  moist  slab  of  coarse  cake;  looking 
with  dull,  indifferent  eyes  each  upon  the  wretchedness  of 
the  others.  Perhaps  some  two  would  whisper  to  each 
other  in  listless,  monotonous  tone,  broken  here  and  there 
by  a  short,  mirthless  laugh ;  some  shivering  creature,  not 
yet  case-hardened  to  despair,  seek,  perhaps,  the  relief  of 
curses  that  none  heeded.  Later,  a  faint  chill  breeze  would 
shake  the  shadows  loose,  a  thin,  wan  light  streak  the  dark 
air  with  shade,  and  silently,  stealthily,  we  would  fade 
away  and  disappear. 


AFTER  II. 


PAUL^  ESCAPING  FROM  HIS  SOLITUDE,  FALLS  INTO  STRANGE 
COMPANY.  AND  BECOMES  CAPTIVE  TO  ONE  OF 
HAUGHTY  MIEN. 

All  things  pass,  even  the  self-inflicted  sufferings  of  shy- 
young  men,  condemned  by  temperament  to  soHtude. 
Came  the  winter  evenings,  I  took  to  work :  in  it  one  may 
drown  much  sorrow  for  oneself.  With  its  handful  of  fire, 
its  two  candles  lighted,  my  "apartment"  was  more  invit- 
ing. I  bought  myself  paper,  pens  and  ink.  Great  or 
small,  what  more  can  a  writer  do  ?  He  is  but  the  would- 
be  medium:  will  the  spirit  voices  employ  him  or  reject 
him? 

London,  with  its  million  characters,  grave  and  gay ;  its 
ten  thousand  romances,  its  mysteries,  its  pathos,  and  its 
humour,  lay  to  my  hand.  It  stretched  before  me,  asking 
only  intelligent  observation,  more  or  less  truthful  report. 
But  that  I  could  make  a  story  out  of  the  things  I  really 
knew  never  occurred  to  me.  My  tales  were  of  cottage^ 
maidens,  of  bucolic  yeomen.  My  scenes  were  laid  in 
windmills,  among  mountains,  or  in  moated  granges.  I 
fancy  this  phase  of  folly  is  common  to  most  youthful  fic- 
tionists. 

A  trail  of  gentle  melancholy  lay  over  them.  Sentiment 
was  more  popular  then  than  it  is  now,  and,  as  do  all  be- 
ginners, I  scrupulously  followed  fashion.  Generally 
speaking,  to  be  a  heroine  of  mine  was  fatal.  However 
naturally  her  hair  might  curl — and  curly  hair,  I  believe, 
is  the  hall-mark  of  vitality ;  whatever  other  indications  of 
vigorous  health  she  might  exhibit  in  the  first  chapter,  such 
as  "dancing  eyes,"  "colour  that  came  and  went,"  "ringing 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      213 

laughter,"  "fawn-like  agility,"  she  was  tolerably  certain, 
poor  girl,  to  end  in  an  untimely  grave.  Snowdrops  and 
early  primroses  (my  botany  I  worked  up  from  a  useful 
little  volume,  "Our  Garden  Favourites,  Illustrated")  grew 
there  as  in  a  forcing  house ;  and  if  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  coast,  the  sea-breezes  would  choose  that  particular 
churchyard,  somewhat  irreverently,  for  their  favourite 
playground.  Years  later  a  white-haired  man  would  come 
there  leading  little  children  by  the  hand,  and  to  them  he 
would  tell  the  tale  anew,  which  must  have  been  a  dismal 
entertainment  for  them. 

Now  and  then,  by  way  of  change,  it  would  be  the  gen- 
tleman who  would  fall  a  victim  of  the  deadly  atmosphere 
of  my  literature.  It  was  of  no  particular  consequence, 
so  he  himself  would  conclude  in  his  last  soliloquy ;  "it  was 
better  so."  Snowdrops  and  primroses,  for  whatever  con- 
solation they  might  have  been  to  him,  it  was  hopeless  for 
him  to  expect;  his  grave,  marked  by  a  rude  cross,  being 
as  a  rule  situate  in  an  exceptionally  unfrequented  portion 
of  the  African  veldt  or  amid  burning  sands.  For  de- 
scription of  final  scenery  on  these  occasions  a  visit  to  the 
British  Museum  reading-room  would  be  necessary. 

Dismal  little  fledgelings !  And  again  and  again  would  I 
drive  them  from  the  nest ;  again  and  again  they  fluttered 
back  to  me,  soiled,  crumpled,  physically  damaged.  Yet 
one  person  had  admired  them,  cried  over  them — myself. 

All  methods  I  tried.  Sometimes  I  would  send  them 
forth  accompanied  by  a  curt  business  note  of  the  take-it- 
or-leave-it  order.  At  other  times  I  would  attach  to  it  pa- 
thetic appeals  for  its  consideration.  Sometimes  I  would 
give  value  to  it,  stating  that  the  price  was  five  guineas  and 
requesting  that  the  cheque  should  be  crossed;  at  other 
times  seek  to  tickle  editorial  cupidity  by  offering  this,  my 
first  contribution  to  their  pages,  for  nothing — my  sample 
packet,  so  to  speak,  sent  gratis,  one  trial  surely  sufficient. 
Now  I  would  write  sarcastically,  enclosing  together  with 
the  stamped  envelope  for  return  a  brutally  penned  note 


214  P^^l  Kelver 

of  rejection.  Or  I  would  write  frankly,  explaining  elab- 
orately that  I  was  a  beginner,  and  asking  to  be  told  my 
faults — if  any. 

Not  one  found  a  resting  place  for  its  feet.  A  month, 
a  week,  a  couple  of  days,  they  would  remain  away  from 
me,  then  return.  I  never  lost  a  single  one.  I  wished  I 
had.     It  would  have  varied  the  monotony. 

I  hated  the  poor  little  slavey  who,  bursting  joyously 
into  the  room,  would  hold  them  out  to  me  from  between 
her  apron-hidden  thumb  and  finger;  her  chronic  sniff  I 
translated  into  contempt.  If  flying  down  the  stairs  at  the 
sound  of  the  postman's  knock  I  secured  it  from  his  hands, 
it  seemed  to  me  he  smiled.  Tearing  them  from  their  en- 
velopes, I  would  curse  them,  abuse  them,  fling  them  into 
the  fire  sometimes;  but  before  they  were  more  than 
scorched  I  would  snatch  them  out,  smooth  them,  reread 
them.  The  editor  himself  could  never  have  seen  them ;  it 
was  impossible;  some  jealous  underling  had  done  this 
thing.  I  had  sent  them  to  the  wrong  paper.  They  had  ar- 
rived at  the  inopportune  moment.  Their  triumph  would 
come.  Rewriting  the  first  and  last  sheets,  I  would  send 
them  forth  again  with  fresh  hope. 

Meanwhile,  understanding  that  the  would-be  happy 
warrior  must  shine  in  camp  as  well  as  field,  I  sought  to 
fit  myself  also  for  the  social  side  of  Hfe.  Smoking  and 
drinking  were  the  twin  sins  I  found  most  difficulty  in  ac- 
quiring. I  am  not  claiming  a  mental  excellence  so 
much  as  confessing  a  bodily  infirmity.  The  spirit  had 
always  been  willing,  but  my  flesh  was  weak.  Fired  by 
emulation,  I  had  at  school  occasionally  essayed  a  cigarette. 
The  result  had  been  distinctly  unsatisfactory,  and  after 
some  two  or  three  attempts,  I  had  abandoned,  for  the  time 
being,  all  further  endeavour;  excusing  my  faint-hearted- 
ness  by  telling  myself  with  sanctimonious  air  that  smok- 
ing was  bad  for  growing  boys ;  attempting  to  delude  my- 
self by  assuming,  in  presence  of  contemporaries  of 
stronger  stomach,  fine  pose  of  disapproval;  yet  in  my 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      215 

heart  knowing  myself  a  young  hypocrite,  disguising  phys- 
ical cowardice  in  the  robes  of  moral  courage :  a  self-decep- 
tion to  which  human  nature  is  prone. 

So  likewise  now  and  again  I  had  tasted  the  wine  that 
was  red,  and  that  stood  year  in,  year  out,  decanted  on  our 
sideboard.  The  true  inwardness  of  St.  Paul's  prescription 
had  been  revealed  to  me ;  the  attitude — sometimes  sneered 
at — of  those  who  drink  it  under  doctor's  orders,  regard- 
ing it  purely  as  a  medicine,  appeared  to  me  reasonable. 
I  had  noticed  also  that  others,  some  of  them  grown  men 
even,  making  wry  faces,  when  drinking  my  mother's 
claret,  and  had  concluded  therefrom  that  taste  for  strong 
liquor  was  an  accomplishment  less  easily  acquired  than  is 
generally  supposed.  The  lack  of  it  in  a  young  man  could 
be  no  disgrace,  and  accordingly  effort  in  that  direction 
also  had  I  weakly  postponed. 

But  now,  a  gentleman  at  large,  my  education  could  no 
longer  be  delayed.  To  the  artist  in  particular  was  train- 
ing— and  severe  training — an  absolute  necessity.  Re- 
cently fashion  has  changed  somewhat,  but  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago  a  genius  who  did  not  smoke  and  drink — and 
that  more  than  was  good  for  him — would  have  been  dis- 
missed without  further  evidence  as  an  impostor.  About 
the  genius  I  was  hopeful,  but  at  no  time  positively  certain. 
As  regarded  the  smoking  and  drinking,  so  much  at  least 
I  could  make  sure  of.  I  set  to  work  methodically,  con- 
scientiously. Smoking,  experience  taught  me,  was  better 
practised  on  Saturday  nights,  Sunday  affording  me  the 
opportunity  of  walking  off  the  effects.  Patience  and  de- 
termination were  eventually  crowned  with  success:  I 
learned  to  smoke  a  cigarette  to  all  appearance  as  though  I 
were  enjoying  it.  Young  men  of  less  character  might 
here  have  rested  content,  but  attainment  of  the  highest  has 
always  been  with  me  a  motive  force.  The  cigarette  con- 
quered, I  next  proceeded  to  attack  the  cigar.  My  first 
one  I  remember  well :  most  men  do.  It  was  at  a 
smoking  concert  held  in  the  Islington  Drill  Hall,  to  which 


2i6  Paul  Kelver 

Minikin  had  invited  me.  Not  feeling  sure  whether  my 
growing  dizziness  were  due  solely  to  the  cigar,  or  in  part 
to  the  hot,  over-crowded  room,  I  made  my  excuses  and 
slipped  out.  I  found  myself  in  a  small  courtyard,  divided 
from  a  neighbouring  garden  by  a  low  wall.  The  cause  of 
my  trouble  was  clearly  the  cigar.  My  inclination  was  to 
take  it  from  my  mouth  and  see  how  far  I  could  throw  it. 
Conscience,  on  the  other  hand,  urged  me  to  persevere.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  if  climbing  on  to  the  wall  I  could  walk 
along  it  from  end  to  end,  there  would  be  no  excuse  for  my 
not  heeding  the  counsels  of  perfection.  If,  on  the  con- 
trary, try  as  I  might,  the  wall  proved  not  wide  enough  for 
my  footsteps,  then  I  should  be  entitled  to  lose  the  beastly 
thing,  and,  as  best  I  could,  make  my  way  home  to  bed.  I 
attained  the  wall  with  some  difficulty  and  commenced  my 
self-inflicted  ordeal.  Two  yards  further  I  found  myself 
lying  across  the  wall,  my  legs  hanging  down  one  side,  my 
head  overhanging  the  other.  The  position  proving  suit- 
able to  my  requirements,  I  maintained  it.  Inclination, 
again  seizing  its  opportunity,  urged  me  then  and  there 
to  take  a  solemn  vow  never  to  smoke  again.  I  am  proud 
to  write  that  through  that  hour  of  temptation  I  remained 
firm,  strengthening  myself  by  whispering  to  myself: 
"Never  despair.  What  others  can  do,  so  can  you.  Is  not 
all  victory  won  through  suffering?" 

A  liking  for  drink  I  had  found,  if  possible,  even  yet 
more  difficult  of  achievement.  Spirits  I  almost  despaired 
of.  Once,  confusing  bottles,  I  drank  some  hair  oil  in  mis- 
take for  whiskey,  and  found  it  decidedly  less  nauseous. 
But  twice  a  week  I  would  force  myself  to  swallow  a  glass 
of  beer,  standing  over  myself  insisting  on  my  draining  it 
to  the  bitter  dregs.  As  reward  afterwards,  to  take  the 
taste  out  of  my  mouth,  I  would  treat  m.yself  to  chocolates ; 
at  the  same  time  comforting  myself  by  assuring  myself 
that  it  was  for  my  good,  that  there  would  come  a  day 
when  I  should  really  like  it,  and  be  grateful  to  myself  for 
having  been  severe  with  myself. 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      217 

In  other  and  more  sensible  directions  I  sought  also  to 
progress.  Gradually  I  was  overcoming  my  shyness.  It 
was  a  slow  process.  I  found  the  best  plan  was  not  to 
mind  being  shy,  to  accept  it  as  part  of  my  temperament, 
and  with  others  laugh  at  it.  The  coldness  of  an  indiffer- 
ent world  is  of  service  in  hardening  a  too  sensitive  skin. 
The  gradual  rubbings  of  existence  were  rounding  off  my 
many  corners.  I  became  possible  to  my  fellow  creatures, 
and  they  to  me.  I  began  to  take  pleasure  in  their  com- 
pany. 

By  directing  me  to  this  particular  house  in  Nelson 
Square,  Fate  had  done  to  me  a  kindness.  I  flatter  myself 
we  were  an  interesting  menagerie  gathered  together  un- 
der its  leaky  roof.  Mrs.  Peedles,  our  landlady,  who  slept 
in  the  basement  with  the  slavey,  had  been  an  actress  in 
Charles  Keane's  company  at  the  old  Princess's.  There, 
it  is  true,  she  had  played  only  insignificant  parts.  Lon- 
don, as  she  would  explain  to  us,  was  even  then  but  a  poor 
judge  of  art,  with  prejudices.  Besides,  an  actor-man- 
ager, hampered  by  a  wife — we  understood.  But  pre- 
viously in  the  Provinces  there  had  been  a  career  of  glory : 
Juliet,  Amy  Robsart,  Mrs.  Haller  in  "The  Stranger" — 
almost  the  entire  roll  of  the  "Legitimates."  Showed  we 
any  signs  of  disbelief,  proof  was  forthcoming :  handbills 
a  yard  long,  rich  in  notes  of  exclamation :  "On  Tuesday 
Evening !  By  Special  Desire ! ! !  Blessington's  Theatre ! 
In  the  Meadow,  adjoining  the  Falcon  Arms !" — "On  Sat- 
urday !  Under  the  Patronage  of  Col.  Sir  William  and  the 
Officers  of  the  74th ! ! ! !  In  the  Corn  Exchange !" 
Maybe  it  would  convince  us  further  were  she  to  run 
through  a  passage  here  and  there,  say  Lady  Macbeth's 
sleep-walking  scene,  or  from  Ophelia's  entrance  in  the 
fourth  act  ?  It  would  be  no  trouble ;  her  memory  was  ex- 
cellent. We  would  hasten  to  assure  her  of  our  perfect 
faith. 

Listening  to  her,  it  was  difficult,  as  she  herself  would 
frankly    admit,    to    imagine    her    the    once   "arch    Miss 


21 8  Paul  Kelver 

Lucretia  Barry;"  looking  at  her,  to  remember  there  had 
been  an  evening  when  she  had  been  "the  cynosure  of 
every  eye."  One  found  it  necessary  to  fortify  oneself 
with  perusal  of  underlined  extracts  from  ancient  journals, 
much  thumbed  and  creased,  thoughtfully  lent  to  one  for 
the  purpose.  Since  those  days  Fate  had  woven  round  her 
a  mantle  of  depression.  She  was  now  a  faded,  watery- 
eyed  little  woman,  prone  on  the  slightest  provocation  to 
sit  down  suddenly  on  the  nearest  chair  and  at  once  com- 
mence a  history  of  her  troubles.  Quite  unconscious  of 
this  failing,  it  was  an  idea  of  hers  that  she  was  an  excep- 
tionally cheerful  person. 

*'But  there,  fretting's  no  good.  We  must  grin  and 
bear  things  in  this  world,"  she  would  conclude,  wiping 
her  eyes  upon  her  apron.  "It's  better  to  laugh  than  to 
cry,  I  always  say."  And  to  prove  that  this  was  no  mere 
idle  sentiment,  she  would  laugh  then  and  there  upon  the 
spot. 

Much  stair-climbing  had  bestowed  upon  her  a  shortness 
of  breath,  which  no  amount  of  panting  in  her  resting  mo- 
ments was  able  to  make  good. 

"You  don't  know  'ow  to  breathe,"  explained  our  second 
floor  front  to  her  on  one  occasion,  a  kindly  young  man; 
"you  don't  swallow  it,  you  only  gargle  with  it.  Take  a 
good  draught  and  shut  your  mouth ;  don't  be  frightened 
of  it ;  don't  let  it  out  again  till  it's  done  something :  that's 
what  it's  'ere  for." 

He  stood  over  her  with  his  handkerchief  pressed  against 
her  mouth  to  assist  her ;  but  it  was  of  no  use. 

"There  don't  seem  any  room  for  it  inside  me,"  she  ex- 
plained. 

Bells  had  become  to  her  the  business  of  life ;  she  lived 
listening  for  them.  Converse  to  her  was  a  filling  in  of 
time  while  waiting  for  interruptions. 

A  bottle  of  whiskey  fell  into  my  hands  that  Christmas 
time,  a  present  from  a  commercial  traveller  in  the  way  of 
business.     Not  liking  whiskey  myself,  it  was  no  sacrifice 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      219 

for  me  to  reserve  it  for  the  occasional  comfort  of  Mrs. 
Peedles,  when,  breathless,  with  her  hands  to  her  side,  she 
would  sink  upon  the  chair  nearest  to  my  door.  Her  poor, 
washed-out  face  would  lighten  at  the  suggestion. 

''Ah,  well,"  she  would  reply,  "I  don't  mind  if  I  do.  It's 
a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices." 

And  then,  her  tongue  unloosened,  she  would  sit  there 
and  tell  me  stories  of  my  predecessors,  young  men  lodg- 
ers who  like  myself  had  taken  her  bed-sitting-rooms,  and 
of  the  woes  and  misfortunes  that  had  overtaken  them.  I 
gathered  that  a  more  unlucky  house  I  could  not  have  se- 
lected. A  former  tenant  of  my  own  room,  of  whom  I 
strangely  reminded  her,  had  written  poetry  on  my  very 
table.  He  was  now  in  Portland  doing  five  years  for  forg- 
ery. Mrs.  Peedles  appeared  to  regard  the  two  accom- 
pHshments  as  merely  different  expressions  of  the  same  art. 
Another  of  her  young  men,  as  she  affectionately  called 
us,  had  been  of  studious  ambition.  His  career  up  to  a 
point  appeared  to  have  been  brilliant.  "What  he  mightn't 
have  been,"  according  to  Mrs.  Peedles,  there  was  practi- 
cally no  saying ;  what  he  happened  to  be  at  the  moment  of 
conversation  was  an  unpromising  inmate  of  the  Hanwell 
lunatic  asylum. 

''I've  always  noticed  it,"  Mrs.  Peedles  would  explain; 
''it's  always  the  most  deserving,  those  that  try  hardest, 
to  whom  trouble  comes.     I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why." 

I  was  glad  on  the  whole  when  that  bottle  of  whiskey 
was  finished.     A  second  might  have  driven  me  to  suicide. 

There  was  no  Mr.  Peedles — at  least,  not  for  Mrs. 
Peedles,  though  as  an  individual  he  continued  to  exist. 
He  had  been  "general  utility"  at  the  Princess's — the  old 
terms  were  still  in  vogue  at  that  time — a  fine  figure  of  a 
man  in  his  day,  so  I  was  given  to  understand,  but  one 
easily  led  away,  especially  by  minxes.  Mrs.  Peedles 
spoke  bitterly  of  general  utilities  as  people  of  not  much 
use. 

For  working  days  Mrs.  Peedle?  had  one  dress  and  one 


220  Paul  Kelver 

cap,  both  black  and  void  of  ostentation ;  but  on  Sundays 
and  holidays  she  would  appear  metamorphosed.  She  had 
carefully  preserved  the  bulk  of  her  stage  wardrobe,  even 
to  the  paste-decked  shoes  and  tinsel  jewelry.  Shapeless 
in  classic  garb  as  Hermia,  or  bulgy  in  brocade  and  velvet 
as  Lady  Teazle,  she  would  receive  her  few  visitors  on 
Sunday  evenings,  discarded  puppets  like  herself,  with 
whom  the  conversation  was  of  gayer  nights  before  their 
wires  had  been  cut ;  or,  her  glory  hid  from  the  ribald  street 
beneath  a  mackintosh,  pay  her  few  calls.  Maybe  it  was 
the  unusual  excitement  that  then  brought  colour  into  her 
furrowed  cheeks,  that  straightened  and  darkened  her  eye- 
brows, at  other  times  so  singularly  unobtrusive.  Be  this 
how  it  may,  the  change  was  remarkable,  only  the  thin  grey 
hair  and  the  work-worn  hands  remaining  for  purposes  of 
identification.  Nor  was  the  transformation  merely  one 
of  surface.  Mrs.  Peedles  hung  on  her  hook  behind  the 
kitchen  door,  dingy,  limp,  discarded ;  out  of  the  wardrobe 
with  the  silks  and  satins  was  lifted  down  to  be  put  on  as 
an  undergarment  Miss  Lucretia  Barry,  like  her  costumes 
somewhat  aged,  somewhat  withered,  but  still  distinctly 
"arch." 

In  the  room  next  to  me  lived  a  law-writer  and  his  wife. 
They  were  very  old  and  miserably  poor.  The  fault  was 
none  of  theirs.  Despite  copy-books  maxims,  there  is  in 
this  world  such  a  thing  as  ill-luck — persistent,  monoto- 
nous, that  gradually  wears  away  all  power  of  resistance. 
I  learned  from  them  their  history :  it  was  hopelessly  simple, 
hopelessly  uninstructive.  He  had  been  a  schoolmaster, 
she  a  pupil  teacher;  they  had  married  young,  and  for  a 
while  the  world  had  smiled  upon  them.  Then  came  ill- 
ness, attacking  them  both :  nothing  out  of  which  any 
moral  could  be  deduced,  a  mere  case  of  bad  drains  result- 
ing in  typhoid  fever.  They  had  started  again,  saddled  by 
debt,  and  after  years  of  effort  had  succeeded  in  clearing 
themselves,  only  to  fall  again,  this  time  in  helping  a  friend. 
Nor  was  it  even  a  case  of  folly :  a  poor  man  who  had 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      221 

helped  them  in  their  trouble,  hardly  could  they  have  done 
otherwise  without  proving  themselves  ungrateful.  And 
so  on,  a  tedious  tale,  commonplace,  trivial.  Now  listless, 
patient,  hard  working,  they  had  arrived  at  an  animal-like 
indifference  to  their  fate,  content  so  long  as  they  could  ob- 
tain the  bare  necessities  of  existence,  passive  when  these 
were  not  forthcoming,  their  interest  in  life  limited  to  the 
one  luxury  of  the  poor — an  occasional  glass  of  beer  or 
spirits.  Often  days  .would  go  by  without  his  obtaining 
any  work,  and  then  they  would  more  or  less  starve.  Law 
documents  are  generally  given  out  to  such  men  in  the 
evening,  to  be  returned  finished  the  next  morning.  Wak- 
ing in  the  night,  I  would  hear  through  the  thin  wooden 
partition  that  divided  our  rooms  the  even  scratching  of  his 
pen. 

Thus  cheek  by  jowl  we  worked,  I  my  side  of  the  screen, 
he  his :  youth  and  age,  hope  and  realisation. 

Out  of  him  my  fears  fashioned  a  vision  of  the  future. 
Past  his  door  I  would  slink  on  tiptoe,  dread  meeting  him 
upon  the  stairs.  Once  had  not  he  said  to  himself :  "The 
world's  mine  oyster?"  May  not  the  voices  of  the  night 
have  proclaimed  him  also  king?  Might  I  not  be  but  an 
idle  dreamer,  mistaking  desire  for  power?  Would  not 
the  world  prove  stronger  than  I  ?  At  such  times  I  would 
see  my  life  before  me :  the  clerkship  at  thirty  shillings  a 
week  rising  by  slow  instalments,  it  may  be,  to  one  hundred 
and  fifty  a  year;  the  four-roomed  house  at  Brixton;  the 
girl  wife,  pretty,  perhaps,  but  sinking  so  soon  into  the 
slatternly  woman;  the  squalling  children.  How  could  I, 
unaided,  expect  to  raise  myself  from  the  ruck?  Was  not 
this  the  more  likely  picture? 

Our  second  floor  front  was  a  young  fellow  in  the  com- 
mercial line.  Jarman  was  Young  London  personified — 
blatant  yet  kind-hearted ;  aggressively  self-assertive,  gen- 
erous to  a  fault;  cunning,  yet  at  the  same  time  frank; 
shrewd,  cheery,  and  full  of  pluck.  "Never  say  die"  was 
his  motto,  and  anything  less  dead  it  would  be  difficult  to 


222  Paul  Kelver 

imagine.  All  day  long  he  was  noisy,  and  all  night  long 
he  snored.  He  woke  with  a  start,  bathed  like  a  porpoise, 
sang  while  dressing,  roared  for  his  boots,  and  whistled 
during  his  breakfast.  His  entrance  and  exit  were  always 
to  an  orchestration  of  banging  doors,  directions  concern- 
ing his  meals  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice  as  he  plunged 
up  or  down  the  stairs,  the  clattering  and  rattling  of 
brooms  and  pails  flying  before  his  feet.  His  departure 
always  left  behind  it  the  suggestion  that  the  house  was 
now  to  let;  it  came  almost  as  a  shock  to  meet  a  human 
being  on  the  landing.  He  would  have  conveyed  an  at- 
mosphere of  bustle  to  the  Egyptian  pyramids. 

Sometimes  carrying  his  own  supper-tray,  arranged  for 
two,  he  would  march  into  my  room.  At  first,  resenting 
his  familiarity,  I  would  hint  at  my  desire  to  be  alone, 
would  explain  that  I  was  busy. 

**You  fire  away,  Shakespeare  Redivivus,"  he  would  re- 
ply. ''Don't  delay  the  tragedy.  Why  should  London 
wait?     I'll  keep  quiet." 

But  his  notion  of  keeping  quiet  was  to  retire  into  a 
corner  and  there  amuse  himself  by  enacting  a  tragedy  of 
his  own  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  accompanied  by  appropriate 
gesture. 

"Ah,  ah!"  I  would  hear  him  muttering  to  himself,  "I 
'ave  killed  'er  good  old  father;  I  'ave  falsely  accused  'er 
young  man  of  all  the  crimes  that  I  'ave  myself  committed ; 
I  'ave  robbed  'er  of  'er  ancestral  estates.  Yet  she  loves 
me  not !  It  is  streeange !"  Then  changing  his  bass  to  a 
shrill  falsetto :  "It  is  a  cold  and  dismal  night :  the  snow 
falls  fast.  I  will  leave  me  'at  and  umbrella  be'ind  the 
door  and  go  out  for  a  walk  with  the  chee-ild.  Aha !  who 
is  this?  'E  also  'as  forgotten  'is  umbrella.  Ah,  now  I 
know  'im  in  the  pitch  dark  by  'is  cigarette !  Villain,  mur- 
derer, silly  josser !  it  is  you !"  Then  with  lightning 
change  of  voice  and  gesture:  "Mary,  I  love  yer!"  "Sir 
Jasper  Murgatroyd,  let  me  avail  myself  of  this  opportu- 
nity to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you — "     "No,  no;  the 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      223 

'ouses  close  in  'alf  an  hour ;  there  is  not  tee-ime.  Fly  with 
me  instead!"  "Never!  Un'and  me!"  "'Ear  me!  Ah, 
what  'ave  I  done?  I  'ave  slipped  upon  a  piece  of  orange 
peel  and  broke  me  'ead!  If  you  will  kindly  ask  them  to 
turn  off  the  snow  and  give  me  a  little  moonlight,  I  will 
confess  all." 

Finding  it  (much  to  Jarman's  surprise)  impossible  to 
renew  the  thread  of  my  work,  I  would  abandon  my  at- 
tempts at  literature,  and  instead  listen  to  his  talk,  which 
was  always  interesting.  His  conversation  was,  it  is  true, 
generally  about  himself,  but  it  was  none  the  less  attractive 
on  that  account.  His  love  affairs,  which  appeared  to  be 
numerous,  formed  his  chief  topic.  There  was  no  reserve 
about  Jarman:  his  life  contained  no  secret  chambers. 
What  he  "told  her  straight,"  what  she  "up  and  said  to 
him"  in  reply  was  for  all  the  world  that  cared  to  hear. 
So  far  his  search  after  the  ideal  had  met  with  but  ill  suc- 
cess. 

"Girls,"  he  would  say,  "they're  all  alike,  till  you  know 
'em.  So  long  as  they're  trying  to  palm  themselves  off  on 
yer,  they'll  persuade  you  there  isn't  such  another  article 
in  all  the  market.  When  they've  got  yer  order — ah,  then 
yer  find  out  what  they're  really  made  of.  And  you  take  it 
from  me,  'Omer  Junior,  most  of  'em  are  put  together 
cheap.  Bah!  it  sickens  me  sometimes  to  read  the  way 
you  paper-stainers  talk  about  'em — angels,  goddesses, 
fairies!  They've  just  been  getting  at  yer.  You're  giv- 
ing 'em  just  the  price  they're  asking  without  examining 
the  article.  Girls  ain't  a  special  make,  like  what  you 
seem  to  think  'em.  We're  all  turned  out  of  the  same  old 
slop  shop." 

"Not  that  I  say,  mind  yer,"  he  would  continue,  "that 
there  are  none  of  the  right  sort.  They're  to  be  'ad — real 
good  'uns.  All  I  say  is,  taking  'em  at  their  own  valuation 
ain't  the  way  to  do  business  with  'emx." 

What  he  was  on  the  look  out  for — to  quote  his  own 
description^ — was  a  really  first  class  article,  not  something 


224  Paul  Kelver 

from  which  the  paint  would  come  off  almost  before  you 
got  it  home. 

"They're  to  be  found,"  he  would  cheerfully  affirm,  "but 
you've  got  to  look  for  'em.  They're  not  the  sort  that 
advertises." 

Behind  Jarman  in  the  second  floor  back  resided  one 
whom  Jarman  had  nicknamed  "The  Lady  'Ortensia."  I 
believe  before  my  arrival  there  had  been  love  passages 
between  the  two ;  but  neither  of  them,  so  I  gathered,  had 
upon  closer  inspection  satisfied  the  other's  standard. 
Their  present  attitude  towards  each  other  was  that  of 
insult  thinly  veiled  under  exaggerated  politeness.  Miss 
Rosina  Sellars  was,  in  her  own  language,  a  "lady  assist- 
ant," in  common  parlance,  a  barmaid  at  the  Ludgate  Hill 
Station  refreshment  room.  She  was  a  large,  flabby 
young  woman.  With  less  powder,  her  complexion  might 
by  admirers  have  been  termed  creamy;  as  it  was,  it  pre- 
sented the  appearance  rather  of  underdone  pastry.  To  be 
on  all  occasions  "quite  the  lady"  was  her  pride.  There 
were  those  who  held  the  angle  of  her  dignity  to  be  ex- 
aggerated. Jarman  would  beg  her  for  her  own  sake  to  be 
more  careful  lest  one  day  she  should  fall  down  backwards 
and  hurt  herself.  On  the  other  hand,  her  bearing  was 
certainly  calculated  to  check  familiarity.  Even  stock- 
brokers' clerks — young  men  as  a  class  with  the  bump  of 
reverence  but  poorly  developed — would  in  her  presence 
falter  and  grow  hesitating.  She  had  cultivated  the  art  of 
not  noticing  to  something  approaching  perfection.  She 
could  draw  the  noisiest  customer  a  glass  of  beer,  which  he 
had  never  ordered;  exchange  it  for  three  of  whiskey, 
which  he  had ;  take  his  money  and  return  him  his  change 
without  ever  seeing  him,  hearing  him,  or  knowing  he  was 
there.  It  shattered  the  self-assertion  of  the  youngest  of 
commercial  travellers.  Her  tone  and  manner,  outside  rare 
moments  of  excitement,  were  suggestive  of  an  offended 
but  forgiving  iceberg.  Jarman  invariably  passed  her  with 
his  coat  collar  turned  up  to  his  ears,  and  even  thus  pro- 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      225 

tected  might  have  been  observed  to  shiver.  Her  stare,  in 
conjunction  with  her  "I  beg  your  pardon!"  was* a  moral 
douche  that  would  have  rendered  apologetic  and  explana- 
tory Don  Juan  himself. 

To  me  she  was  always  gracious,  which  by  contrast  to 
her  general  attitude  towards  my  sex  of  studied  disdain, 
I  confess  flattered  me.  She  was  good  enough  to  observe 
to  Mrs.  Peedles,  who  repeated  it  to  me,  that  I  was  the  only 
gentleman  in  the  house  who  knew  how  to  behave  himself. 

The  entire  first  floor  was  occupied  by  an  Irishman  and 
— they  never  minced  the  matter  themselves,  so  hardly  is 
there  need  for  me  to  do  so.  She  was  a  charming  little 
dark-eyed  woman,  an  ex-tight-rope  dancer,  and  always 
greatly  offended  Mrs.  Peedles  by  claiming  Miss  Lucretia 
Barry  as  a  sister  artiste. 

"Of  course  I  don't  know  how  it  may  be  now,"  would 
reply  Mrs.  Peedles,  with  some  slight  asperity;  "but  in 
my  time  we  ladies  of  the  legitimate  stage  used  to  look 
down  upon  dancers  and  such  sort.  Of  course,  no  offence 
to  you,  Mrs.  O'Kelly." 

Neither  of  them  was  in  the  least  offended. 

"Sure,  Mrs.  Peedles,  ye  could  never  have  looked  down 
upon  the  Signora,"  the  O'Kelly  would  answer  laughing. 
"Ye  had  to  lie  back  and  look  up  to  her.  Why,  I've  got 
the  crick  in  me  neck  to  this  day !" 

"Ah!  my  dear,  and  you  don't  know  how  nervous  I 
was  when  glancing  down  I'd  see  his  handsome  face  just 
underneath  me,  thinking  that  with  one  false  step  I  might 
spoil  it  for  ever,"  would  reply  the  Signora. 

"Me  darling!  I'd  have  died  happy,  just  smothered  in 
loveliness !"  would  return  the  O'Kelly ;  and  he  and  the 
Signora  would  rush  into  each  other's  arms,  and  the  sound 
of  their  kisses  would  quite  excite  the  little  slavey  sweep- 
ing down  the  stairs  outside. 

He  was  a  barrister  attached  in  theory  to  the  Western 
Circuit ;  in  practice,  somewhat  indifferent  to  it,  much  more 
attached  to  the  lower  strata  of  Bohemia  and  the  Signora. 


2  26  Paul  Kelver 

At  the  present  he  was  earning  all  sufficient  for  the 
simple  needs  of  himself  and  the  Signora  as  a  teacher  of 
music  and  singing.  His  method  was  simple  and  suited 
admirably  the  locality.  Unless  specially  requested,  he 
never  troubled  his  pupils  with  such  tiresome  things  as 
scales  and  exercises.  His  plan  was  to  discover  the  song 
the  young  man  fancied  himself  singing,  the  particular 
jingle  the  young  lady  yearned  to  knock  out  of  the  piano, 
and  to  teach  it  to  them.  Was  it  *'Tom  Bowling?"  Well 
and  good.  Come  on;  follow  your  leader.  The  O'Kelly 
would  sing  the  first  line. 

"Now  then,  try  that.  Don't  be  afraid.  Just  open  yer 
mouth  and  gave  it  tongue.  That's  all  right.  Everything 
has  a  beginning.  Sure,  later  on,  we'll  get  the  time  and 
tune,  maybe  a  little  expression." 

Whether  the  system  had  any  merit  in  it,  I  cannot  an- 
swer. Certain  it  was  that  as  often  as  not  it  achieved  suc- 
cess. Gradually — say,  by  the  end  of  twelve  eighteen- 
penny  lessons — out  of  storm  and  chaos  *'Tom  Bowling" 
would  emerge,  recognisable  for  all  men  to  hear.  Had  the 
pupil  any  voice  to  start  with,  the  O'Kelly  improved  it; 
had  he  none,  the  O'Kelly  would  help  him  to  disguise  the 
fact. 

"Take  it  easy,  now ;  take  it  easy,"  the  O'Kelly  would 
counsel.  "Sure,  it's  a  delicate  organ,  yer  voice.  Don't 
ye  strain  it  now.  Ye're  at  yer  best  when  ye're  just  low 
and  sweet." 

So  also  with  the  blushing  pianiste.  At  the  end  of  a 
month  a  tune  was  distinctly  discernible ;  she  could  hear  it 
herself,  and  was  happy.     His  repute  spread. 

Twice  already  had  he  eloped  with  the  Signora  (and 
twice  again  was  he  to  repeat  the  operation,  before  I  finally 
lost  sight  of  him :  to  break  oneself  of  habit  is  always  dif- 
ficult) and  once  by  well-meaning  friends  had  he  been  in- 
duced to  return  to  home,  if  not  to  beauty.  His  wife,  who 
was  considerably  older  than  himself,  possessed,  so  he 
would  inform  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  every  moral  ex- 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      227 

cellence  that  should  attract  mankind.  Upon  her  good- 
ness and  virtue,  her  piety  and  conscientiousness  he  would 
descant  to  me  by  the  half  hour.  His  sincerity  it  was  im- 
possible to  question.  It  was  beyond  doubt  that  he  re- 
spected her,  admired  her,  honoured  her.  She  was  a  saint, 
an  angel — a  wretch,  a  villain  such  as  he,  was  not  fit  to 
breathe  the  same  pure  air.  To  do  him  justice,  it  must  be 
admitted  he  showed  no  particular  desire  to  do  so.  As  an 
aunt  or  grandmother,  I  believe  he  would  have  suffered 
her  gladly.  He  had  nothing  to  say  against  her,  except 
that  he  found  himself  unable  to  live  with  her. 

That  she  must  have  been  a  lady  of  exceptional  merit  one 
felt  convinced.  The  Signora,  who  had  met  her  only  once, 
and  then  under  somewhat  trying  conditions,  spoke  her 
praises  with  equal  enthusiasm.  Had  she,  the  Signora, 
enjoyed  the  advantage  of  meeting  such  a  model  earlier, 
she,  the  Signora,  might  have  been  a  better  woman.  It 
seemed  a  pity  the  introduction  could  not  have  taken  place 
sooner  and  under  different  circumstances.  Could  they 
both  have  adopted  her  as  a  sort  of  mutual  mother-in-law, 
it  would  have  given  them,  I  am  positive,  the  greatest  satis- 
faction. On  her  occasional  visits  they  would  have  vied 
with  each  other  in  showing  her  affectionate  attention. 
For  the  deserted  lady  I  tried  to  feel  sorry,  but  could  not 
avoid  the  reflection  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  all 
parties  had  she  been  less  patient  and  forgiving.  Her  hus- 
band was  evidently  much  more  suited  to  the  Signora. 

Indeed,  the  relationship  between  these  two  was  more  a 
true  marriage  than  one  generally  meets  with.  No  pair  of 
love-birds  could  have  been  more  snug  together.  In  their 
virtues  and  failings  alike  they  fitted  each  other.  When 
sober  the  immorality  of  their  behaviour  never  troubled 
them;  in  fact,  when  sober  nothing  ever  troubled  them. 
They  laughed,  joked,  played  through  life,  two  happy  chil- 
dren. To  be  shocked  at  them  was  impossible.  I  tried  it 
and  failed. 

But  now  and  again  there  came  an  evening  when  they 


228  Paul  Kelver 

were  not  sober.  It  happened  when  funds  were  high.  On 
such  occasion  the  O'Kelly  would  return  laden  with  bottles 
of  a  certain  sweet  champagne,  of  which  they  were  both  ex- 
tremely fond ;  and  a  friend  or  two  would  be  invited  to 
share  in  the  festivity.  Whether  any  exceptional  quality  re- 
sided in  this  particular  brand  of  champagne  I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  argue;  my  own  personal  experience  of  it  has 
prompted  me  to  avoid  it  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Its  ef- 
fect upon  them  was  certainly  unique.  Instead  of  intoxi- 
cating them,  it  sobered  them:  there  is  no  other  way  of 
explaining  it.  With  the  third  or  fourth  glass  they  began 
to  take  serious  views  of  life.  Before  the  end  of  the  sec- 
ond bottle  they  would  be  staring  at  each  other,  appalled 
at  contemplation  of  their  own  transgression.  The  Sign- 
ora,  the  tears  streaming  down  h'er  pretty  face,  would 
declare  herself  a  wicked,  wicked  woman ;  she  had  dragged 
down  into  shame  the  most  blameless,  the  most  virtuous  of 
men.  Emptying  her  glass,  she  would  bury  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  in  an  agony  of 
remorse,  sit  rocking  to  and  fro.  The  O'Kelly,  throwing 
himself  at  her  feet,  would  passionately  abjure  her  to  ''look 
up."  She  had,  it  appeared,  got  hold  of  the  thing  at  the 
wrong  end ;  it  was  he  who  had  dragged  her  down. 

At  this  point  metaphor  would  become  confused.  Each 
had  been  dragged  down  by  the  other  one  and  ruined ;  also 
each  one  was  the  other  one's  good  angel.  All  that  was 
commendable  in  the  Signora,  she  owed  to  the  O'Kelly. 
Whatever  was  not  discreditable  about  the  O'Kelly  was  in 
the  nature  of  a  loan  from  the  Signora.  With  the  help 
of  more  champagne  the  right  course  would  grow  plain  to 
them.  She  would  go  back  broken-hearted  but  repentant 
to  the  tight-rope ;  he  would  return  a  better  but  a  blighted 
man  to  Mrs.  O'Kelly  and  the  Western  Circuit.  This 
would  be  their  last  evening  together  on  earth.  A  fresh 
bottle  would  be  broached,  and  the  guest  or  guests  called 
upon  to  assist  in  the  ceremony  of  renunciation;  glasses 
full  to  the  brim  this  time. 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      229 

So  much  tragedy  did  they  continue  to  instil  into  the 
scene  that  on  the  first  occasion  of  my  witnessing  it  I  was 
unable  to  refrain  from  mingling  my  tears  with  theirs. 
As,  however,  the  next  morning  they  had  forgotten  all 
about  it,  and  as  nothing  came  of  it,  nor  of  several  subse- 
quent repetitions,  I  should  have  believed  a  separation  be- 
tween them  impossible  but  that  even  while  I  was  an  in- 
mate of  the  house  the  thing  actually  happened. 

It  came  about  in  this  wise.  His  friends,  having  dis- 
covered him,  had  pointed  out  to  him  again  his  duty.  The 
Signora — a  really  excellent  little  woman  so  far  as  inten- 
tion was  concerned — had  seconded  their  endeavours,  with 
the  result  that  on  a  certain  evening  in  autumn  we  of  the 
house  assembled  all  of  us  on  the  first  floor  to  support 
them  on  the  occasion  of  their  final — so  we  all  deemed  it 
then — leave-taking.  For  eleven  o'clock  two  four-wheeled 
cabs  had  been  ordered,  one  to  transport  the  O'Kelly  with 
his  belongings  to  Hampstead  and  respectability;  in  the 
other  the  Signora  would  journey  sorrowfully  to  the 
Tower  Basin,  there  to  join  a  circus  company  sailing  for 
the  Continent. 

I  knocked  at  the  door  some  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
the  appointed  hour  of  the  party.  I  fancy  the  idea  had 
originated  with  the  Signora. 

"Dear  Willie  has  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  had  in- 
formed me  that  morning  on  the  stairs.  *'He  has  taken  a 
sincere  liking  to  you,  and  it  is  something  very  important." 

They  were  sitting  one  each  side  the  fireplace,  looking 
very  serious;  a  bottle  of  the  sobering  champagne  stood 
upon  the  table.  The  Signora  rose  and  kissed  me  gravely 
on  the  brow ;  the  O'Kelly  laid  both  hands  upon  my  should- 
ers, and  sat  me  down  on  a  chair  between  them. 

''Mr.  Kelver,"  said  the  Signora,  "you  are  very  young." 

I  hinted — it  was  one  of  those  rare  occasions  upon  which 
gallantry  can  be  combined  with  truth — that  I  found  my- 
self in  company. 

The  Signora  smiled  sadly,  and  shook  her  head. 


230  Paul  Kelver 

"Age,"  said  the  O'Kelly,  *'is  a  matter  of  feeling.  Kel- 
ver, may  ye  never  be  as  old  as  I  am  feeling  now." 

"As  we  are  feeling,"  corrected  the  Signora. 

"Kelver,"  said  the  O'Kelly,  pouring  out  a  third  glass 
of  champagne,  "we  want  ye  to  promise  us  something." 

"It  will  make  us  both  happier,"  added  the  Signora. 

"That  ye  will  take  warning,"  continued  the  O'Kelly, 
"by  our  wretched  example.  Paul,  in  this  world  there  is 
only  one  path  to  possible  happiness.  The  path  of 
strict — "  he  paused. 

"Propriety,"  suggested  the  Signora. 

"Of  strict  propriety,"  agreed  the  O'Kelly.  "Deviate 
from  it,"  continued  the  O'Kelly,  impressively,  "and  what 
is  the  result?" 

"Unutterable  misery,"  supplied  the  Signora. 

"Ye  think  we  two  have  been  happy  here  together,"  said 
the  O'Kelly. 

I  replied  that  such  was  the  conclusion  to  which  obser- 
vation had  directed  me. 

"We  tried  to  appear  so,"  explained  the  Signora ;  "it  was 
merely  on  the  outside.  In  reality  all  the  time  we  hated 
each  other.  Tell  him,  Willie,  dear,  how  we  have  hated 
each  other." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  the  O'Kelly,  finishing  and  put- 
ting down  his  glass,  "to  give  ye  any  idea,  Kelver,  how  we 
have  hated  each  other." 

"How  we  have  quarrelled!"  said  the  Signora.  "Tell 
him,  dear,  how^  we  have  quarrelled." 

"All  day  long  and  half  the  night,"  concluded  the 
O'Kelly. 

"Fought,"  added  the  Signora.  "You  see,  Mr.  Kelver, 
people  in — in  our  position  always  do.  If  it  had  been 
otherwise,  if — if  everything  had  been  proper,  then  of 
course  we  should  have  loved  each  other.  As  it  is,  it 
has  been  a  cat  and  dog  existence.  Hasn't  it  been  a  cat 
and  dog  existence,  WiUie  ?" 

"It'3  been  just  hell  upon  earth,"  murmured  the  O'Kelly, 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      231 

with  his  eyes  fixed  gloomily  upon  the  fire-stove  ornament. 

Deadly  in  earnest  though  they  both  were,  I  could  not 
repress  a  laugh,  their  excellent  intention  was  so  obvious. 
The  Signora  burst  into  tears. 

*'He  doesn't  believe  us,"  she  wailed. 

"Me  dear,"  replied  the  O'Kelly,  throwing  up  his  part 
with  promptness  and  satisfaction,  ''how  could  ye  expect 
it  ?  How  could  he  believe  that  any  man  could  look  at  ye 
and  hate  ye?" 

''It's  all  my  fault,"  cried  the  little  woman ;  "I  am  such  a 
wicked  creature.  I  cannot  even  be  miserable  when  I  am 
doing  wrong.  A  decent  woman  in  my  place  would  have 
been  wretched  and  unhappy,  and  made  everybody  about 
her  wretched  and  unhappy,  and  so  have  set  a  good  ex- 
ample and  have  been  a  warning.  I  don't  seem  to  have 
any  conscience,  and  I  do  try."  The  poor  little  lady  was 
sobbing  her  heart  out. 

When  not  shy  I  could  be  sensible,  and  of  the  O'Kelly 
and  the  Signora  one  could  be  no  more  shy  than  of  a  pair 
of  robin  redbreasts.  Besides,  I  was  really  fond  of  them ; 
they  had  been  very  good  to  me. 

"Dear  Miss  Beltoni,"  I  answered,  "I  am  going  to  take 
warning  by  you  both." 

She  pressed  my  hand.  "Oh,  do,  please  do,"  she  mur- 
mured.   "We  really  have  been  miserable — now  and  then." 

"I  am  never  going  to  be  content,"  I  assured  her,  "until 
I  find  a  lady  as  charming  and  as  amiable  as  you,  and  if 
ever  I  get  her  I'll  take  good  care  never  to  run  any  risk  of 
losing  her." 

It  sounded  well  and  pleased  us  all.  The  O'Kelly  shook 
me  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  this  time  spoke  his  real  feel- 
ings. 

"Me  boy,"  he  said,  "all  women  are  good — for  some- 
body. But  the  woman  that  is  good  for  yerself  is  better 
for  ye  than  a  better  woman  who's  the  best  for  somebody 
else.     Ye  understand?'* 

I  said  I  did. 


232  Paul  Kelver 

At  eight  o'clock  precisely  Mrs.  Peedles  arrived — as 
Flora  MacDonald,  in  green  velvet  jacket  and  twelve  to 
fifteen  inches  of  plaid  stocking.  As  a  topic  fitting  the 
occasion  we  discussed  the  absent  Mr.  Peedles  and  the  sub- 
ject of  deserted  wives  in  general. 

"A  fine-looking  man,"  allowed  Mrs.  Peedles,  ''but  weak 
— weak  as  water." 

The  Signora  agreed  that  unfortunately  there  did  exist 
such  men :  'twas  pitiful  but  true. 

•  "My  dear,"  continued  Mrs.  Peedles,  "she  wasn't  even 
a  lady." 

The  Signora  expressed  astonishment  at  the  deteriora- 
tion in  Mr.  Peedles'  taste  thus  implied. 

'T  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  we  never  had  a  difference," 
continued  Mrs.  Peedles,  whose  object  appeared  to  be  an 
impartial  statement  of  the  whole  case.  "There  may  have 
been  incompatability  of  temperament,  as  they  say.  My- 
self, I  have  always  been  of  a  playful  disposition — frivol- 
ous, some  might  call  me." 

The  Signora  protested;  the  O'Kelly  declined  to  listen 
to  such  aspersion  on  her  character  even  from  Mrs.  Peedles 
herself. 

Mrs.  Peedles,  thus  corrected,  allowed  that  maybe  frivol- 
ous was  too  sweeping  an  accusation :  say  sportive. 

"But  a  good  wife  to  him  I  always  was,"  asserted  Mrs. 
Peedles,  with  a  fine  sense  of  justice;  "never  flighty,  like 
some  of  them.  I  challenge  any  one  to  accuse  me  of  hav- 
ing been  flighty." 

We  felt  we  should  not  believe  any  one  who  did,  and  told 
her  so. 

Mrs.  Peedles,  drawing  her  chair  closer  to  the  Signora, 
assumed  a  confidential  attitude.  "If  they  want  to  go,  let 
'em  go,  I  always  say,"  she  whispered  loudly  into  the  Sign- 
ora's  ear.  "Ten  to  one  they'll  find  they've  only  jumped 
out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire.  One  can  always  com- 
fort oneself  with  that." 

There  seemed  to  be  confusion  in  the  mind  of  Mrs. 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company       233 

Peedles.  Her  virtuous  sympathies,  I  gathered,  were  with 
the  Signora.  Mr.  O'Kelly's  return  to  Mrs.  O'Kelly  evi- 
dently manifested  itself  in  the  Hght  of  a  shameful  deser- 
tion. Having  regard  to  the  fact,  patent  to  all  who  knew 
him,  that  the  poor  fellow  was  sacrificing  every  inclination 
to  stern  sense  of  duty,  such  view  of  the  matter  was  rough 
on  him.  But  philosophers  from  all  ages  have  agreed  that 
our  good  deeds  are  the  whips  with  which  Fate  punishes 
us  for  our  bad. 

''My  dear,"  continued  Mrs.  Peedles,  ''when  Mr.  Peedles 
left  me  I  thought  that  I  should  never  smile  again.  Yet 
here  you  see  me  laughing  away  through  life,  just  as  ever. 
You'll  get  over  it  all  right."  And  Mrs.  Peedles  wiped 
away  her  tears  and  smiled  upon  the  Signora;  upon  which 
the  Signora  commenced  to  cry  again. 

Happily,  timely  diversion  was  made  at  this  point  by  the 
bursting  into  the  room  of  Jarman,  who  upon  perceiving 
Mrs.  Peedles,  at  once  gave  vent  to  a  hoot,  supposed  to  be 
expressive  of  Scottish  joy,  and  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation commenced  to  dance  a  reel. 

My  neighbours  of  the  first  floor  knocked  at  the  door  a 
little  while  afterwards;  and  genteelly  late  arrived  Miss 
Rosina  Sellars,  coldly  gleaming  in  a  decollete  but  awe- 
inspiring  costume  of  mingled  black  and  scarlet,  out  of 
which  her  fair,  if  fleshy,  neck  and  arms  shone  luxuriant. 

We  did  not  go  into  supper;  instead,  supper  came  into 
us  from  the  restaurant  at  the  corner  of  the  Blackfriars 
Road.  I  cannot  say  that  at  first  it  was  a  festive  meal.  The 
O'Kelly  and  the  Signora  made  effort,  as  in  duty  bound, 
to  be  cheerful,  but  for  awhile  were  somewhat  unsuccess- 
ful. The  third  floor  front  wasted  no  time  in  speech,  but 
ate  and  drank  copiously.  Miss  Sellars,  retaining  her 
gloves — which  was  perhaps  wise,  her  hands  being  her 
weak  point — signalled  me  out,  much  to  my  embarrass- 
ment, as  the  recipient  of  her  most  polite  conversation. 
Mrs.  Peedles  became  reminiscent  of  parties  generally. 
Seeing  that  most  of  Mrs.  Peedles'  former  friends  and  ac- 


234 


Paul  Kelver 


quaintances  were  either  dead  or  in  more  or  less  trouble^ 
her  efforts  did  not  tend  to  enHven  the  table.  One  gather- 
ing, of  which  the  present  strangely  reminded  her,  was  a 
funeral,  chiefly  remarkable  from  discovery  of  the  romantic 
fact,  late  in  the  proceedings,  that  the  gentleman  in  whose 
honour  the  whole  affair  had  been  organised  was  not 
dead  at  all ;  but  instead,  having  taken  advantage  of  an  er- 
ror arising  out  of  a  railway  accident,  was  at  the  moment 
eloping  with  the  wife  of  his  own  chief  mourner.  As  Mrs. 
Peedles  explained,  and  as  one  could  well  credit,  it  had 
been  an  awkward  position  for  all  present.  Nobody  had 
quite  known  whether  to  feel  glad  or  sorry — with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  chief  mourner,  upon  whose  personal  under- 
taking that  the  company  might  regard  the  ceremony  as 
merely  postponed,  festivities  came  to  an  end. 

Our  prop  and  stay  from  a  convivial  point  of  view  was 
Jarman.  As  a  delicate  attention  to  Mrs.  Peedles  and  her 
costume  he  sunk  his  nationality  and  became  for  the  even- 
ing, according  to  his  own  declaration,  "a  braw  laddie." 
With  her — his  "sonsie  lassie,"  so  he  termed  her — he 
flirted  in  the  broadest,  if  not  purest,  Scotch.  The  O'Kelly 
for  him  became  "the  Laird ;"  the  third  floor  "Jamie  o'  the 
Ilk;"  Miss  Sellars,  "the  bonnie  wee  rose;"  myself,  "the 
chiel."  Periods  of  silence  were  dispersed  by  suggestions 
that  we  should  "hoot  awa',"  Jarman  himself  setting  us  the 
example. 

With  the  clearance  away  of  the  eatables,  making  room 
for  the  production  of  a  more  varied  supply  of  bottles, 
matters  began  to  mend.  Mrs.  Peedles  became  more  arch, 
Jarman's  Scotch  more  striking  and  extensive,  the  Lady 
'Ortensia's  remarks  less  depressingly  genteel,  her  aitchcs 
less  accentuated. 

Jarman  rose  to  propose  the  health  of  the  O'Kelly, 
coupled  with  that  of  the  Signora.  To  the  O'Kelly,  in  a 
burst  of  generosity,  Jarman  promised  our  united  patron- 
age. To  Jarman  it  appeared  that  by  employing  the 
O'Kelly  to  defend  us  whenever  we  got  into  trouble  with 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      235 

the  police,  and  by  recommending  him  to  our  friends,  a 
steady  income  should  be  assured  to  him. 

The  O'Kelly  replied  feelingly  to  the  effect  that  Nelson 
Square,  Blackfriars,  would  ever  remain  engraved  upon 
his  memory  as  the  fairest  and  brightest  spot  on  earth. 
Personally,  nothing  would  have  given  him  greater  pleas- 
ure than  to  die  among  the  dear  friends  who  now  sur- 
rounded him.  But  there  was  such  a  thing  as  duty,  and 
he  and  the  Signora  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  true 
happiness  could  only  be  obtained  by  acting  according  to 
one's  conscience,  even  if  it  made  one  miserable. 

Jarman,  warming  to  his  work,  then  proposed  the  health 
of  Mrs.  Peedles,  as  true-hearted  and  hard-breathing  a 
lady  as  ever  it  had  been  his  privilege  to  know.  Her  talent 
for  cheery  conversation  was  familiar  to  us  all,  upon  it  he 
need  not  enlarge;  all  he  would  say  was  that  personally 
never  did  she  go  out  of  his  room  without  leaving  him 
more  cheerful  than  when  she  entered  it. 

After  that — I  forget  in  what — we  drank  the  health  of 
the  Lady  'Ortensia.  Persons  there  were — ^Jarman  would 
not  attempt  to  disguise  the  fact — who  complained  that 
the  Lady  'Ortensia  was  too  distant,  ''too  stand-offish." 
With  such  complaint  he  himself  had  no  sympathy;  but 
tastes  differed.  If  the  Lady  'Ortensia  were  inclined  to  be 
exclusive,  who  should  blame  her  ?  Everybody  knew  their 
own  business  best.  For  use  in  a  second  floor  front  he 
could  not  honestly  recommend  the  Lady  'Ortensia;  it 
would  not  be  giving  her  a  fair  chance,  and  it  would  not 
be  giving  the  second  floor  a  fair  chance.  But  for  any 
gentleman  fitting  up  marble  halls,  for  any  one  on  the  look- 
out for  a  really  "toney  article,"  Jarman  would  say:  In- 
quire for  Miss  Rosina  Sellars,  and  see  that  you  get  her. 

There  followed  my  turn.  There  had  been  literary 
chaps  in  the  past,  Jarman  admitted  so  much.  Against 
them  he  had  nothing  to  say.  They  had  no  doubt  done 
their  best.  But  the  gentleman  whose  health  Jarman 
wished  the  company  now  to  drink  had  this  advantage  over 


236  Paul  Kelver 

them :  that  they  were  dead,  and  he  wasn't.  Some  of  this 
gentleman's  work  Jarman  had  read — in  manuscript;  but 
that  was  a  distinction  purely  temporary.  He,  Jarman, 
claimed  to  be  no  judge  of  literature,  but  this  he  could  and 
would  say,  it  took  a  good  deal  to  make  him  miserable, 
yet  this  the  literary  efforts  of  Mr.  Kelver  invariably  ac- 
complished. 

Mrs.  Peedles,  speaking  without  rising,  from  personal 
observation  in  the  daytime — which  she  hoped  would  not 
be  deemed  a  liberty ;  literature,  even  in  manuscript,  being, 
so  to  speak,  public  property — found  herself  in  a  position 
to  confirm  all  that  Mr.  Jarman  had  remarked.  Speaking 
as  one  not  entirely  without  authority  on  the  subject  of 
literature  and  the  drama,  Mrs.  Peedles  could  say  that  pas- 
sages she  had  read  had  struck  her  as  distinctly  not  half 
bad.  Some  of  the  love-scenes,  in  particular,  had  made  her 
to  feel  quite  a  girl  again.  How  he  had  acquired  such 
knowledge  was  not  for  her  to  say.  Cries  of  "Naughty !" 
from  Jarman,  and  *'0h,  Mr.  Kelver,  I  shall  be  quite  afraid 
of  you,"  roguishly  from  Miss  Sellars. 

The  O'Kelly,  who,  having  abandoned  his  favourite 
champagne  for  less  sobering  liquor,  had  since  supper-time 
become  rapidly  more  cheerful,  felt  sure  there  was  a  future 
before  me.  That  he  had  not  seen  any  of  my  work,  so  he 
assured  me,  in  no  way  lessened  his  opinion  of  it.  One 
thing  only  would  he  impress  upon  me :  that  the  best  work 
was  the  result  of  strict  attention  to  virtue.  His  advice  to 
me  was  to  marry  young  and  be  happy. 

My  persevering  efforts  of  the  last  few  months  towards 
the  acquisition  of  convivial  habits  appeared  this  evening 
to  be  receiving  their  reward.  The  O'Kelly's  sweet  cham- 
pagne I  had  drunk  with  less  dislike  than  hitherto ;  a  white, 
syrupy  sort  of  stuff,  out  of  a  fat  and  artistic-looking  bot- 
tle, I  had  found  distinctly  grateful  to  the  palate.  Dimly 
the  quotation  about  taking  things  at  the  flood,  and  so  get- 
ting on  quickly,  floated  through  my  brain,  coupled  with 
another  one  about  fortune  favouring  the  bold.     It  had 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      237 

seemed  to  me  a  good  occasion  to  try  for  the  second  time 
in  my  life  a  full  flavoured  cigar.  I  had  selected  with  the 
caution  of  a  connoisseur  one  of  mottled  green  com- 
plexion from  the  O'Kelly's  largest  box.  And  so  far  all 
had  gone  well.  An  easy  self-confidence,  delightful  by 
reason  of  its  novelty,  had  replaced  my  customary  shyness ; 
a  sense  of  lightness — of  positive  airiness,  emanating  from 
myself,  pervaded  all  things.  Tossing  off  another  glass 
of  the  champagne,  I  rose  to  reply. 

Modesty  in  my  present  mood  would  have  been  affecta- 
tion. To  such  dear  and  well-beloved  friends  I  had  no  hesi- 
tation in  admitting  the  truth,  that  I  was  a  clever  fellow — 
a  damned  clever  fellow.  I  knew  it,  they  knew  it,  in  a 
short  time  everybody  would  know  it.  But  they  need  not 
fear  that  in  the  hour  of  my  pride,  when  it  arrived,  I  should 
prove  ungrateful.  Never  should  I  forget  their  kindness 
to  me,  a  lonely  young  man,  alone  in  a  lonely — 

Here  the  pathos  of  my  own  situation  overcame  me; 
words  seemed  weak.  "Jarman — "  I  meant,  putting  my 
hand  upon  his  head,  to  have  blessed  him  for  his  goodness 
to  me ;  but  he  being  not  exactly  where  he  looked  to  be,  I 
just  missed  him,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  my  chair, 
which  was  a  hard  one.  I  had  not  intended  this  to  be  the 
end  of  my  speech,  by  a  long  one ;  but  Jarman,  whispering 
to  me:  "Ended  at  exactly  the  right  moment;  shows  the 
born  orator,"  strong  inclination  to  remain  seated,  now  that 
I  was  down  seconding  his  counsel,  and  the  company  being 
clearly  satisfied,  I  decided  to  leave  things  where  they  were. 

A  delightful  dreaminess  was  stealing  over  me.  Every- 
thing and  everybody  appeared  to  be  a  long  way  off,  but, 
whether  because  of  this  or  in  spite  of  it,  exceedingly  at- 
tractive. Never  had  I  noticed  the  Signora  so  bewitching ; 
in  a  motherly  sort  of  way  even  the  third  floor  front  was 
good  to  look  upon ;  Mrs.  Peedles  I  could  almost  have  be- 
lieved to  be  the  real  Flora  MacDonald  sitting  in  front  of 
me.  But  the  vision  of  Miss  Rosina  Sellars  made  literally 
my  head  to  swim.    Never  before  had  I  dared  to  cast  upon 


238  Paul  Kelver 

female  loveliness  the  satisfying  gaze  with  which  I  now 
boldly  regarded  her  every  movement.  Evidently  she 
noticed  it,  for  she  turned  away  her  eyes.  I  had  heard 
that  exceptionally  strong-minded  people  merely  by  con- 
centrating their  will  could  make  other,  ordinary  people, 
do  just  whatever  they,  the  exceptionally  strong-minded 
people,  wished.  I  willed  that  Miss  Rosina  Sellars  should 
turn  her  eyes  again  towards  me.  Victory  crowned  my 
efforts.  Evidently  I  was  one  of  these  exceptionally 
strong-minded  persons.  Slowly  her  eyes  came  round  and 
met  mine  with  a  smile — a  helpless,  pathetic  smile  that 
said,  so  I  read  it :  "You  know  no  woman  can  resist  you : 
be  merciful !" 

Inflamed  by  the  brutal  lust  of  conquest,  I  suppose  I 
must  have  willed  still  further,  for  the  next  thing  I  remem- 
ber is  sitting  with  Miss  Sellars  on  the  sofa,  holding  her 
hand,  the  while  the  O'Kelly  sang  a  sentimental  ballad,  only 
one  line  of  which  comes  back  to  me :  "For  the  angels  must 
have  told  him,  and  he  knows  I  love  him  now,"  much  stress 
upon  the  "now."  The  others  had  their  backs  towards 
us.  Miss  Sellars,  with  a  look  that  pierced  my  heart, 
dropped  her  somewhat  large  head  upon  my  shoulder, 
leaving,  as  I  observed  the  next  day,  a  patch  of  powder  on 
my  coat. 

Miss  Sellars  observed  that  one  of  the  saddest  things  in 
the  world  was  unrequited  love. 

I  replied  gallantly,  "Whateryou  know  about  it?" 

"Ah,  you  men,  you  men,"  murmured  Miss  Sellars ; 
"you're  all  alike." 

This  suggested  a  personal  aspersion  on  my  character. 
"Not  alius,"  I  murmured. 

"You  don't  know  what  love  is,"  said  Miss  Sellars. 
"You're  not  old  enough." 

The  O'Kelly  had  passed  on  to  Sullivan's  "Sweet- 
hearts," then  in  its  first  popularity. 

"  Oh,  love  for  a  year — a  week — a  day ! 
But  oh  for  the  love  that  loves  al-wa-ay !"' 


Paul  Falls  into  Strange  Company      239 

Miss  Sellars'  languishing  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me; 
Miss  Sellars'  red  lips  pouted  and  twitched ;  Miss  Sellars' 
white  bosom  rose  and  fell.  Never,  so  it  seemed  to  me, 
had  so  large  an  amount  of  beauty  been  concentrated  in 
one  being. 

"Yeserdo,"  I  said.     "I  love  you." 

I  stooped  to  kiss  the  red  lips,  but  something  was  in  my 
way.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  cold  cigar.  Miss  Sellars 
thoughtfully  removed  it,  and  threw  it  away.  Our  lips 
met.  Her  large  arms  closed  about  my  neck  and  held  me 
tight. 

"Well,  I'm  sure!"  came  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Peedles,  as 
from  afar.     ''Nice  goings  on !" 

I  have  vague  remembrance  of  a  somewhat  heated  dis- 
cussion, in  which  everybody  but  myself  appeared  to  be 
taking  extreme  interest — of  Miss  Sellars  in  her  most  lady- 
like and  chilling  tones  defending  me  against  the  charge 
of  ''being  no  gentleman,"  which  Mrs.  Peedles  was  ex- 
plaining nobody  had  said  I  wasn't.  The  argument 
seemed  to  be  of  the  circular  order.  No  gentleman  had 
ever  kissed  Miss  Sellars  who  had  not  every  right  to  do 
so,  nor  ever  would.  To  kiss  Miss  Sellars  without  such 
right  was  to  declare  oneself  no  gentleman.  Miss  Sellars 
appealed  to  me  to  clear  my  character  from  the  aspersion 
of  being  no  gentleman.  I  was  trying  to  understand  the 
situation,  when  Jarman,  seizing  me  somewhat  roughly  by 
the  arm,  suggested  my  going  to  bed.  Miss  Sellars,  seiz- 
ing my  other  arm,  suggested  my  refusing  to  go  to  bed. 
So  far  I  was  with  Miss  Sellars :  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  bed, 
and  said  so.  My  desire  to  sit  up  longer  was  proof  posi- 
tive to  Miss  Sellars  that  I  was  a  gentleman,  but  to  no  one 
else.  The  argument  shifted,  the  question  being  now  as 
to  whether  Miss  Sellars  were  a  lady.  To  prove  the  point 
it  was,  according  to  Miss  Sellars,  necessary  that  I  should 
repeat  I  loved  her.  I  did  repeat  it,  adding,  with  faint 
remembrance  of  my  own  fiction,  that  if  a  life's  devotion 
was  likely  to  be  of  the  slightest  further  proof,  my  heart's 


240  Paul  Kelver 

blood  was  at  her  service.  This  cleared  the  air,  Mrs. 
Peedles  observing  that  under  such  circumstances  it  only 
remained  for  her  to  withdraw  everything  she  had  said; 
to  which  Miss  Sellars  replied  graciously  that  she  had 
always  known  Mrs.  Peedles  to  be  a  good  sort  at  the 
bottom. 

Nevertheless,  gaiety  was  gone  from  among  us,  and  for 
this,  in  some  way  I  could  not  understand,  I  appeared  to 
be  responsible.  Jarman  was  distinctly  sulky.  The 
O'Kelly,  suddenly  thinking  of  the  time,  went  to  the  door 
and  discovered  that  the  two  cabs  were  waiting.  The 
third  floor  recollected  that  work  had  to  be  finished.  I 
myself  felt  sleepy. 

Our  host  and  hostess  departed ;  Jarman  again  suggested 
bed,  and  this  time  I  agreed  with  him.  After  a  slight  mis- 
understanding with  the  door,  I  found  myself  upon  the 
stairs.  I  had  never  noticed  before  that  they  were  quite 
perpendicular.  Adapting  myself  to  the  changed  condi- 
tions, I  climbed  them  with  the  help  of  my  hands.  I  ac- 
complished the  last  flight  somewhat  quickly,  and  feeling 
tired,  sat  down  the  moment  I  was  within  my  own  room. 
Jarman  knocked  at  the  door.  I  told  him  to  come  in ;  but 
he  didn't.  It  occurred  to  me  that  the  reason  was  I  was 
sitting  on  the  floor  with  my  back  against  the  door.  The 
discovery  amused  me  exceedingly  and  I  laughed;  and 
Jarman,  baffled,  descended  to  his  own  floor.  I  found  get- 
ting into  bed  a  difficulty,  owing  to  the  strange  behaviour 
of  the  room.  It  spun  round  and  round.  Now  the  bed 
was  just  in  front  of  me,  now  it  was  behind  me.  I  man- 
aged at  last  to  catch  it  before  it  could  get  past  me,  and 
holding  on  by  the  ironwork,  frustrated  its  efforts  to 
throw  me  out  again  on  to  the  floor. 

But  it  was  some  time  before  I  went  to  sleep,  and  over 
my  intervening  experiences  I  draw  a  veiL 


CHAPTER  III. 

GOOD  FRIENDS  SHOW   PAUL  THE  ROAD  TO  FREEDOM.        BUT 
BEFORE  SETTING  OUT,  HE  WILL  GO  A-VISITING. 

The  Sim  was  streaming  into  my  window  when  I  woke 
in  the  morning.  I  sat  up  and  Hstened.  The  roar  of  the 
streets  told  me  plainly  that  the  day  had  begun  without 
me.  I  reached  out  my  hand  for  my  watch ;  it  was  not  in 
its  usual  place  upon  the  rickety  dressing-table.  I  raised 
myself  still  higher  and  looked  about  me.  My  clothes  lay 
scattered  on  the  floor.  One  boot,  in  solitary  state,  occu- 
pied the  chair  by  the  fireplace;  the  other  I  could  not  see 
anywhere. 

During  the  night  my  head  appeared  to  have  grown 
considerably.  I  wondered  idly  for  the  moment  whether 
I  had  not  made  a  mistake  and  put  on  Minikin's;  if  so, 
I  should  be  glad  to  exchange  back  for  my  own.  This 
thing  I  had  got  was  a  top-heavy  affair,  and  was  aching 
most  confoundedly. 

Suddenly  the  recollection  of  the  previous  night  rushed 
at  me  and  shook  me  awake.  From  a  neighbouring  stee- 
ple rang  chimes :  I  counted  with  care.  Eleven  o'clock. 
I  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  at  once  sat  down  upon  the  floor. 
I  remembered  how,  holding  on  to  the  bed,  I  had  felt  the 
room  waltzing  wildly  round  and  round.  It  had  not  quite 
steadied  itself  even  yet.  It  was  still  rotating,  not  whirl- 
ing now,  but  staggering  feebly,  as  though  worn  out  by 
its  all-night  orgie.  Creeping  to  the  wash-stand,  I  suc- 
ceeded, after  one  or  two  false  plunges,  in  getting  my  head 
inside  the  basin.  Then,  drawing  on  my  trousers  with 
difficulty  and  reaching  the  easy-chair,  I  sat  down  and 


242  Paul  Kelver 

reviewed  matters  so  far  as  I  was  able,  commencing  from 
the  present  and  working  back  towards  the  past. 

I  was  feeling  very  ill.  That  was  quite  clear.  Some- 
thing had  disagreed  with  me. 

"That  strong  cigar,"  I  whispered  feebly  to  myself;  "I 
ought  never  to  have  ventured  upon  it.  And  then  the  lit- 
tle room  with  all  those  people  in  it.  Besides,  I  have  been 
working  very  hard.     I  must  really  take  more  exercise." 

It  gave  me  some  satisfaction  to  observe  that,  shuffling 
and  cowardly  though  I  might  be,  I  was  not  a  person  easily 
bamboozled. 

"Nonsense,"  I  told  myself  brutally;  "don't  try  to  de- 
ceive me.    You  were  drunk." 

"Not  drunk,"  I  pleaded;  "don't  say  drunk;  it  is  such 
a  coarse  expression.  Some  people  cannot  stand  sweet 
champagne,  so  I  have  heard.  It  affected  my  liver.  Do 
please  make  it  a  question  of  liver." 

"Drunk,"  I  persisted  unrelentingly,  "hopelessly,  vul- 
garly drunk — drunk  as  any  'Arry  after  a  Bank  Holiday." 

"It  is  the  first  time,"  I  murmured. 

"It  was  your  first  opportunity,"  I  replied. 

"Never  again,"  I  promised. 

"The  stock  phrase,"  I  returned. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Nineteen." 

"So  you  have  not  even  the  excuse  of  youth.  How  do 
you  know  that  it  will  not  grow  upon  you;  that,  having 
thus  commenced  a  downward  career,  you  will  not  sink 
lower  and  lower,  and  so  end  by  becoming  a  confirmed 
sot?" 

My  heavy  head  dropped  into  my  hands,  and  I  groaned. 
Many  a  temperance  tale  perused  on  Sunday  afternoons 
came  back  to  me.  Imaginative  in  all  directions,  I  watched 
myself  hastening  toward  a  drunkard's  grave,  now  heroic- 
ally struggling  against  temptation,  now  weakly  yielding, 
the  craving  growing  upon  me.  In  the  misty  air  about  me 
I  saw  my  father's  white  face,  my  mother's  sad  eyes.     I 


The  Road  to  Freedom  243 

thought  of  Barbara,  of  the  scorn  that  could  quiver  round 
that  bewitching  mouth ;  of  Hal,  with  his  tremendous  con- 
tempt for  all  forms  of  weakness.  Shame  of  the  present 
and  terror  of  the  future  between  them  racked  my  mind. 

"It  shall  be  never  again !"  I  cried  aloud.  *'By  God,  it 
shall!"  (At  nineteen  one  is  apt  to  be  vehement.)  "I 
will  leave  this  house  at  once,"  I  continued  to  myself 
aloud;  "I  will  get  away  from  its  unwholesome  atmos- 
phere. I  will  wipe  it  out  of  my  mind,  and  all  connected 
with  it.     I  will  make  a  fresh  start.     I  will " 

Something  I  had  been  dimly  conscious  of  at  the  back 
of  my  brain  came  forward  and  stood  before  me:  the 
flabby  figure  of  Miss  Rosina  Sellars.  What  was  she  do- 
ing here?  What  right  had  she  to  step  between  me  and 
my  regeneration? 

"The  right  of  your  affianced  bride,"  my  other  half  ex- 
plained, with  a  grim  smile  to  myself. 

"Did  I  really  go  so  far  as  that?" 

"We  will  not  go  into  details,"  I  replied ;  "I  do  not  wish 
to  dwell  upon  them.    That  was  the  result." 

"I  was — I  was  not  quite  myself  at  the  time.  I  did  not 
know  what  I  was  doing." 

"As  a  rule,  we  don't  when  we  do  foolish  things;  but 
we  have  to  abide  by  the  consequences,  all  the  same.  Un- 
fortunately, it  happened  to  be  in  the  presence  of  wit- 
nesses, and  she  is  not  the  sort  of  lady  to  be  easily  got  rid 
of.  You  will  marry  her  and  settle  down  with  her  in  two 
small  rooms.  Her  people  will  be  your  people.  You  will 
come  to  know  them  better  before  many  days  are  passed. 
Among  them  she  is  regarded  as  'the  lady,'  from  which 
you  can  judge  of  them.  A  nice  commencement  of  your 
career,  is  it  not,  my  ambitious  young  friend?  A  nice 
mess  you  have  made  of  it!" 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  I  asked. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

I  passed  a  wretched  day.  Ashamed  to  face  Mrs.  Pee- 
dles    or    even    the    slavey,    I    kept    to    my    room,    with 


244  P^^l  Kelver 

the  door  locked.  At  dusk,  feeling  a  little  better — or, 
rather,  less  bad,  I  stole  out  and  indulged  in  a  simple  meal, 
consisting  of  tea  without  sugar  and  a  kippered  herring, 
at  a  neighbouring  coffee-house.  Another  gentleman,  tak- 
ing his  seat  opposite  to  me  and  ordering  hot  buttered 
toast,  I  left  hastily. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  Minikin  called  round 
from  the  office  to  know  what  had  happened.  Seeking 
help  from  shame,  I  confessed  to  him  the  truth. 

''Thought  as  much,"  he  answered.  "Seems  to  have 
been  an  Ai  from  the  look  of  you." 

'T  am  glad  it  has  happened,  now  it  is  over,"  I  said  to 
him.     'Tt  will  be  a  lesson  I  shall  never  forget." 

'T  know,"  said  Minikin.  "Nothing  like  a  fair  and 
square  drunk  for  making  you  feel  real  good ;  better  than 
a  sermon." 

In  my  trouble  I  felt  the  need  of  advice;  and  Minikin, 
though  my  junior,  was,  I  knew,  far  more  experienced  in 
worldly  affairs  than  I  was. 

"That's  not  the  worst,"  I  confided  to  him.  "What  do 
you  think  I've  done?" 

"Killed  a  policeman?"  suggested  Minikin. 

"Got  myself  engaged." 

"No  one  like  you  quiet  fellows  for  going  it  when  you 
do  begin,"  commented  Minikin.     "Nice  girl?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "I  only  know  I  don't 
want  her.     How  can  I  get  out  of  it?" 

Minikin  removed  his  left  eye  and  commenced  to  polish 
it  upon  his  handkerchief,  a  habit  he  had  when  in  doubt. 
From  looking  into  it  he  appeared  to  derive  inspiration. 

"Take-her-own-part  sort  of  a  girl?" 

I  intimated  that  he  had  diagnosed  Miss  Rosina  Sellars 
correctly. 

"Know  how  much  you're  earning?" 

"She  knows  I  live  up  here  in  this  attic  and  do  my  own 
cooking,"  I  answered. 


The  Road  to  Freedom  245 

Minikin  glanced  round  the  room.  "Must  be  fond  of 
you." 

"She  thinks  I'm  clever,"  I  explained,  "and  that  I  shall 
make  my  way." 

"And  she's  willing  to  wait  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  I  should  let  her  wait,"  replied  Minikin,  replac- 
ing his  eye.     "There's  plenty  of  time  before  you." 

"But  she's  a  barmaid,  and  she'll  expect  me  to  walk 
with  her,  to  take  her  out  on  Sundays,  to  go  and  see  her 
friends.  I  can't  do  it.  Besides,  she's  right:  I  mean  to 
get  on.     Then  she'll  stick  to  me.     It's  awful !" 

"How  did  it  happen  ?"  asked  Minikin. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "I  didn't  know  I  had  done 
it  till  it  was  over." 

"Anybody  present  ?" 

"Half-a-dozen  of  them,"  I  groaned. 

The  door  opened,  and  Jarman  entered;  he  never  trou- 
bled to  knock  anywhere.  In  place  of  his  usual  noisy 
greeting,  he  crossed  in  silence  and  shook  me  gravely 
by  the  hand. 

"Friend  of  yours?"  he  asked,  indicating  Minikin. 

I  introduced  them  to  each  other. 

"Proud  to  meet  you,"  said  Jarman. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Minikin.  "Don't  look  as  if 
you'd  got  much  else  to  be  stuck  up  about." 

"Don't  mind  him,"  I  explained  to  Jarman.  "He  was 
born  like  it." 

"Wonderful  gift,"  replied  Jarman.  "D'ye  know  what 
I  should  do  if  I  'ad  it?"  He  did  not  wait  for  Minikin's 
reply.  "  'Ire  myself  out  to  break  up  evening  parties. 
Ever  thought  of  it  seriously?" 

Minikin  replied  that  he  would  give  the  idea  consider- 
ation. 

"Make  your  fortune  going  round  the  suburbs,"  assured 
him  Jarman.     "Pity  you  weren't  'ere  last  night,"  he  con- 


246  Paul  Kelver 

tinned;  "might  'ave  saved  our  young  friend  'ere  a  deal 
of  trouble.     Has  'e  told  you  the  news  ?" 

I  explained  that  I  had  already  put  Minikin  in  posses- 
sion of  all  the  facts. 

"Now  you've  got  a  good,  steady  eye,"  said  Jarman, 
upon  whom  Minikin,  according  to  his  manner,  had  fixed 
his  glass  orb ;  "  'ow  d'ye  think  'e  is  looking  ?" 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected  under  the  circumstances, 
don't  you  think  ?"  answered  Minikin. 

"Does  'e  know  the  circumstances?  Has  'e  seen  the 
girl?"  asked  Jarman. 

I  replied  he  had  not  as  yet  enjoyed  that  privilege. 

"Then  'e  don't  know  the  worst,"  said  Jarman.  "A 
hundred  and  sixty  pounds  of  'er,  and  still  growing!  Bit 
of  a  load  for  'im,  ain't  it?" 

"Some  of  'em  do  have  luck,"  was  Minikin's  rejoinder. 

Jarman  leant  forward  and  took  further  stock  for  a  few 
seconds  of  his  new  acquaintance. 

"That's  a  fine  'ead  of  yours,"  he  remarked;  "all  your 
own?  No  offence,"  continued  Jarman,  without  giving 
Minikin  time  for  repartee.  "I  was  merely  thinking  there 
must  be  room  for  a  lot  of  sense  in  it.  Now,  what  do  you, 
as  a  practical  man,  advise  'im :  dose  of  poison,  or  Waterloo 
Bridge  and  a  brick?" 

"I  suppose  there's  no  doubt,"  I  interjected,  "that  we 
are  actually  engaged?" 

"Not  a  blooming  shadow,"  assured  me  Jarman,  cheer- 
fully, "so  far  as  she's  concerned." 

"I  shall  tell  her  plainly,"  I  explained,  "that  I  was  drunk 
at  the  time." 

"And  'ow  are  you  going  to  convince  'er  of  it?"  asked 
Jarman.  "You  think  your  telling  'er  you  loved  'er  proves 
it.  So  it  would  to  anybody  else,  but  not  to  'er.  You 
can't  expect  it.  Besides,  if  every  girl  is  going  to  give 
up  'er  catch  just  because  the  fellow  'adn't  all  'is  wits 
about  'im  at  the  time — well,  what  do  you  think  ?"  He  ap- 
pealed to  Minikin. 


The  Road  to  Freedom  247 

To  Minikin  it  appeared  that  if  such  contention  were 
allowed  girls  might  as  well  shut  up  shop. 

Jarman,  who  now  that  he  had  "got  even"  with  Minikin, 
was  more  friendly  disposed  towards  that  young  man,  drew 
his  chair  closer  to  him  and  entered  upon  a  private 
and  confidential  argument,  from  which  I  appeared  to  be 
entirely  excluded. 

"You  see,"  explained  Jarman,  "this  ain't  an  ordinary 
case.  This  chap's  going  to  be  the  future  Poet  Laureate. 
Now,  when  the  Prince  of  Wales  invites  him  to  dine  at 
Marlborough  'Ouse,  'e  don't  want  to  go  there  tacked  on 
to  a  girl  that  carries  aitches  with  her  in  a  bag,  and  don't 
know  which  end  of  the  spoon  out  of  which  to  drink  'er 
soup." 

"It  makes  a  difference,  of  course,"  agreed  Minikin. 

"What  we've  got  to  do,"  said  Jarman,  "is  to  get  'im 
out  of  it.  And  upon  my  sivvy,  blessed  if  I  see  'ow  to 
doit!" 

"She  fancies  him?"  asked  Minikin. 

"What  she  fancies,"  explained  Jarman,  "is  that  nature 
intended  'er  to  be  a  lady.  And  it's  no  good  pointing  ont 
to  'er  the  mistake  she's  making,  because  she  ain't  g  t 
sense  enough  to  see  it." 

"No  good  talking  straight  to  her,"  suggested  Mini- 
kin, "telling  her  that  it  can  never  be  ?" 

"That's  our  difficulty,"  repHed  Jarman;  "it  can  be. 
This  chap" — I  listened  as  might  a  prisoner  in  the  dock 
to  the  argument  of  counsel,  interested  but  impotent — 
"don't  know  enough  to  come  in  out  of  the  rain,  as  the 
saying  is.  'E's  just  the  sort  of  chap  this  sort  of  thing 
does  'appen  to." 

"But  he  don't  want  her,"  urged  Minikin.  "He  says 
he  don't  want  her." 

"Yes,  to  you  and  me,"  answered  Jarman;  "and  of 
course  'e  don't.  I'm  not  saying  'e's  a  natural  born  idiot. 
But  let  'er  come  along  and  do  a  snivel — tell  'im  that  'e's 
breaking  'er  'eart,  and  appeal  to  'im  to  be'ave  as  a  gen- 


248  Paul  Kelver 

tleman,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  what  do  you  think 
will  be  the  result?" 

Minikin  agreed  that  the  problem  presented  difficul- 
ties. 

"Of  course,  if  'twas  you  or  me,  we  should  just  tell  'er 
to  put  'erself  away  somewhere  where  the  moth  couldn't 
get  at  'er  and  wait  till  we  sent  round  for  'er ;  and  there'd 
be  an  end  of  the  matter.     But  with  'im  it's  different." 

*'He  is  a  bit  of  a  soft,"  agreed  Minikin. 

"'Tain't  'is  fault,"  explained  Jarman ;  "'twas  the  way  'e 
was  brought  up.  'E  fancies  girls  are  the  sort  of  things 
one  sees  in  plays,  going  about  saying  'Un'and  me !'  'Let 
me  pass!'  Maybe  some  of  'em  are,  but  this  ain't  one 
of  'em." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  asked  Minikin. 

"  'Ow  does  it  'appen  nine  times  out  of  ten  ?"  returned 
Jarman.  "  'E  was  a  bit  misty,  and  she  was  wide  awake. 
'E  gets  a  bit  spoony,  and — well,  you  know." 

"Artful  things,  girls,"  commented  Minikin. 

"Can't  blame  'em,"  returned  Jarman,  with  generosity; 
"it's  their  business.  Got  to  dispose  of  themselves  some- 
how. Oughtn't  to  be  binding  without  a  written  order 
dated  the  next  morning ;  that'd  make  it  all  right." 

"Couldn't  prove  a  prior  engagement?"  suggested  Min- 
ikin. 

"She'd  want  to  see  the  girl  first  before  she'd  believe  it 
— only  natural,"  returned  Jarman. 

"Couldn't  get  a  girl?"  urged  Minikin. 

"Who  could  you  trust?"  asked  the  cautious  Jarman. 
"Besides,  there  ain't  time.  She's  letting  'im  rest  to-day ; 
to-morrow  evening  she'll  be  down  on  'im." 

"Don't  see  anything  for  it,"  said  Minikin,  "but  for  him 
to  do  a  bunk." 

"Not  a  bad  idea  that,"  mused  Jarman;  "only  where's 
'e  to  bunk  to?" 

"Needn't  go  far,"  said  Minikin. 

"She'd  find  'im  out  and  follow  'im,"  said  Jarman.  "She 


The  Road  to  Freedom  249 

can  look  after  herself,  mind  you.  Don't  you  go  doing 
'er  any  injustice." 

"He  could  change  his  name,"  suggested  Minikin. 

"  'Ow  could  'e  get  a  crib  ?"  asked  Jarman ;  "no  charac- 
ter, no  references." 

"I've  got  it,"  cried  Jarman,  starting  up;  "the  stage!" 

"Can  he  act?"  asked  Minikin. 

"Can  do  anything,"  retorted  my  supporter,  "that  don't 
want  too  much  sense.  That's  'is  sanctuary,  the  stage. 
No  questions  asked,  no  character  wanted.  Lord!  why 
didn't  I  think  of  it  before?" 

"Wants  a  bit  of  getting  on  to,  doesn't  it?"  suggested 
Minikin. 

"Depends  upon  where  you  want  to  get,"  replied  Jar- 
man. For  the  first  time  since  the  commencement  of  the 
discussion  he  turned  to  me.  "Can  you  sing?"  he  asked 
me. 

I  replied  that  I  could  a  little,  though  I  had  never  done 
so  in  public. 

"Sing  something  now,"  demanded  Jarman;  "let's  'ear 
you.     Wait  a  minute!"  he  cried. 

He  slipped  out  of  the  room.  I  heard  him  pause  upon 
the  landing  below  and  knock  at  the  door  of  the  fair 
Rosina's  room.     The  next  minute  he  returned. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  explained;  "she's  not  in  yet.  Now, 
sing  for  all  you're  worth.  Remember,  it's  for  life  and 
freedom." 

I  sang  "Sally  in  Our  Alley,"  not  with  much  spirit,  I  am 
inclined  to  think.  With  every  mention  of  the  lady's 
name  there  rose  before  me  the  abundant  form  and  fea- 
tures of  my  fiancee,  which  checked  the  feeling  that  should 
have  trembled  through  my  voice.  But  Jarman,  though 
not  enthusiastic,  was  content. 

"It  isn't  what  I  call  a  grand  opera  voice,"  he  com- 
mented, "but  it  ought  to  do  all  right  for  a  chorus  where 
economy  is  the  chief  point  to  be  considered.  Now,  I'll 
tell  you   what  to  do.     You   go  to-morrow   straight  to 


250  Paul  Kelver 

the  O 'Kelly,  and  put  the  whole  thing  before  'im.  'E's  a 
good  sort;  'e'll  touch  you  up  a  bit,  and  maybe  give  you 
a  few  introductions.  Lucky  for  you,  this  is  just  the 
right  time.  There's  one  or  two  things  comin'  on,  and 
if  Fate  ain't  dead  against  you,  you'll  lose  your  amorita, 
or  whatever  it's  called,  and  not  find  'er  again  till  it's  too 
late." 

I  was  not  in  the  mood  that  evening  to  feel  hopeful  about 
anything ;  but  I  thanked  both  of  them  for  their  kind  inten- 
tions and  promised  to  think  the  suggestion  over  on  the 
morrow,  when,  as  it  was  generally  agreed,  I  should  be  in 
a  more  fitting  state  to  bring  cool  judgment  to  bear  upon 
the  subject ;  and  they  rose  to  take  their  departure. 

Leaving  Minikin  to  descend  alone,  Jarman  returned 
the  next  minute.  "Consols  are  down  a  bit  this  week,"  he 
whispered,  with  the  door  in  his  hand.  'If  you  want  a 
little  of  the  ready  to  carry  you  through,  don't  go  sellin' 
out.  I  can  manage  a  few  pounds.  Suck  a  couple  of  lem- 
ons and  you'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning.     So  long." 

I  followed  his  advice  regarding  the  lemons,  and  finding 
it  correct,  went  to  the  office  next  morning  as  usual.  Lott 
&  Co.,  in  consideration  of  my  agreeing  to  a  deduction  of 
two  shillings  on  the  week's  salary,  allowed  himself  to 
overlook  the  matter.  I  had  intended  acting  on  Jarman's 
advice,  to  call  upon  the  O'Kelly  at  his  address  of  re- 
spectability in  Hampstead  that  evening,  and  had  posted 
him  a  note  saying  I  was  coming.  Before  leaving  the 
office,  however,  I  received  a  reply  to  the  effect  that  he 
would  be  out  that  evening,  and  asking  me  to  make  it  the 
following  Friday  instead.  Disappointed,  I  returned  to 
my  lodgings  in  a  depressed  state  of  mind.  Jarman's 
scheme,  which  had  appeared  hopeful  and  even  attractive 
during  the  daytime,  now  loomed  shadowy  and  impossible 
before  me.  The  emptiness  of  the  first  floor  parlour  as  I 
passed  its  open  door  struck  a  chill  upon  me,  reminding 
me  of  the  disappearance  of  a  friend  to  whom,  in  spite  of 
moral  disapproval,  I  had  during  these  last  few  months 


The  Road  to  Freedom 


251 


become  attached.  Unable  to  work,  the  old  pain  of  lone- 
liness returned  upon  me.  I  sat  for  awhile  in  the  dark- 
ness, listening  to  the  scratching  of  the  pen  of  my  neigh- 
bour, the  old  law-writer,  and  the  sense  of  despair  that  its 
sound  always  communicated  to  me  encompassed  me  about 
this  evening  with  heavier  weight  than  usual. 

After  all,  was  not  the  sympathy  of  the  Lady  'Ortensia, 
stimulated  for  personal  purposes  though  it  might  be,  bet- 
ter than  nothing?  At  least,  here  was  some  living  crea- 
ture to  whom  I  belonged,  to  whom  my  existence  or  non- 
existence was  of  interest,  who,  if  only  for  her  own  sake, 
was  bound  to  share  my  hopes,  my  fears. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  I  heard  a  slight  tap  at  the  door. 
In  the  dim  passage  stood  the  small  slavey,  holding  out  a 
note.  I  took  it,  and  returning,  lighted  my  candle.  The 
envelope  was  pink  and  scented.  It  was  addressed,  in 
handwriting  not  so  bad  as  I  had  expected,  to  *Taul  Kel- 
ver,  Esquire."    I  opened  it  and  read : 

"Dr  mr.  Paul — I  herd  as  how  you  was  took  hill  hafter 
the  party.  I  feer  you  are  not  strong.  You  must  not 
work  so  hard  or  you  will  be  hill  and  then  I  shall  be  very 
cros  with  you.  I  hop  you  are  well  now.  If  so  I  am  go- 
ing for  a  wark  and  you, may  come  with  me  if  you  are 
good.     With  much  love.     From  your  affechonat 

RosiE." 

In  spite  of  the  spelling,  a  curious,  tingling  sensation 
stole  over  me  as  I  read  this  my  first  love-letter.  A  faint 
mist  swam  before  my  eyes.  Through  it,  glorified  and 
softened,  I  saw  the  face  of  my  betrothed,  pasty  yet  allur- 
ing, her  large  white  fleshy  arms  stretched  out  invitingly 
toward  me.  Moved  by  a  sudden  hot  haste  that  seized 
me,  I  dressed  myself  with  trembling  hands ;  I  appeared  to 
be  anxious  to  act  without  giving  myself  time  for  thought. 
Complete,  with  a  colour  in  my  cheeks  unusual  to  them. 


252  Paul  Kelver 

and  a  burning  in  my  eyes,  I  descended  and  knocked  with 
a  nervous  hand  at  the  door  of  the  second  floor  back. 

** Who's  that?"  came  in  answer  Miss  Sellars'  sharp 
tones. 

"It  is  I— Paul." 

"Oh,  wait  a  minute,  dear."  The  tone  was  sweeter. 
There  followed  the  sound  of  scurried  footsteps,  a  rustling 
of  clothes,  a  banging  of  drawers,  a  few  moments'  dead 
silence,  and  then : 

"You  can  come  in  now,  dear." 

I  entered.  It  was  a  small,  untidy  room,  smelling  of 
smoky  lamp ;  but  all  I  saw  distinctly  at  the  moment  was 
Miss  Sellars  with  her  arms  above  her  head,  pinning  her 
hat  upon  her  straw-coloured  hair. 

With  the  sight  of  her  before  me  in  the  flesh,  my  feel- 
ings underwent  a  sudden  revulsion.  During  the  few  min- 
utes she  had  kept  me  waiting  outside  the  door  I  had  suf- 
fered from  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  turn  the 
handle  and  rush  in.  Now,  had  I  acted  on  impulse,  I 
should  have  run  out.  Not  that  she  was  an  unpleasant- 
looking  girl  by  any  means;  it  was  the  atmosphere  of 
coarseness,  of  commonness,  around  her  that  repelled  me. 
The  fastidiousness — finikinness,  if  you  will — that  would 
so  often  spoil  my  rare  chop,  put  before  me  by  a  waitress 
with  dirty  finger-nails,  forced  rrie  to  disregard  the  ample 
charms  she  no  doubt  did  possess,  to  fasten  my  eyes  ex- 
clusively upon  her  red,  rough  hands  and  the  one  or  two 
warts  that  grew  thereon. 

"You're  a  very  naughty  boy,"  told  me  Miss  Sellars,  fin- 
ishing the  fastening  of  her  hat.  "Why  didn't  you  come 
in  and  see  me  in  the  dinner-/jour  ?  I've  a  great  mind  not 
to  kiss  you." 

The  powder  she  had  evidently  dabbed  on  hastily  was 
plainly  visible  upon  her  face ;  the  round,  soft  arms  were 
hidden  beneath  ill-fitting  sleeves  of  some  crapey  material, 
the  thought  of  which  put  my  teeth  on  edge.  I  wished  her 
intention   had  been   stronger.     Instead,   relenting,   she 


The  Road  to  Freedom  253 

offered  me  her  flowery  cheek,  which  I  saluted  gingerly, 
the  taste  of  it  reminding  me  of  certain  pale,  thin  dough- 
cakes  manufactured  by  the  wife  of  our  school  porter  and 
sold  to  us  in  playtime  at  four  a  penny,  and  which,  having 
regard  to  their  satisfying  quality,  had  been  popular  with 
me  in  those  days. 

At  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs  Miss  Sellars  paused 
and  called  down  shrilly  to  Mrs.  Peedles,  who  in  course  of 
time  appeared,  panting. 

**Oh,  me  and  Mr.  Kelver  are  going  out  for  a  short 
walk,  Mrs.  Peedles.  I  shan't  want  any  supper.  Good 
night." 

"Oh,  good  night,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Peedles. 
"Hope  you'll  enjoy  yourselves.     Is  Mr.  Kelver  there?" 

"He's  round  the  corner,"  I  heard  Miss  Sellars  explain 
in  a  lower  voice;  and  there  followed  a  snigger. 

"tie's  a  bit  shy,  ain't  he?"  suggested  Mrs.  Peedles  in 
a  whisper. 

"I've  had  enough  of  the  other  sort,"  was  Miss  Sellars' 
answer  in  low  tones. 

"Ah,  well ;  it's  the  shy  ones  that  come  out  the  strongest 
after  a  bit — leastways,  that's  been  my  experience." 

"He'll  do  all  right.     So  long." 

Miss  Sellars,  buttoning  a  burst  glove,  rejoined  me. 

"I  suppose  you've  never  had  a  sweetheart  before?" 
asked  Miss  Sellars,  as  we  turned  into  the  Blackfriars 
Road. 

I  admitted  that  this  was  my  first  experience. 

"I  can't  a-bear  a  flirty  man,"  explained  Miss  Sellars. 
"That's  why  I  took  to  you  from  the  beginning.  You 
was  so  quiet." 

I  began  to  wish  that  nature  had  bestowed  upon  me  a 
noisier  temperament. 

"Anybody  could  see  you  was  a  gentleman,"  continued 
Miss  Sellars.  "Heaps  and  heaps  of  hoffers  I've  had — 
/hundreds  you  might  almost  say.  But  what  I've  always 
told  'em  is,  'I  like  you  very  much  indeed  as  a  friend,  but 


254  P^^l  Kelver 

Vm  not  going  to  marry  any  one  but  a  gentleman/  Don*t 
you  think  I  was  right  ?" 

I  murmured  it  was  only  what  I  should  have  expected 
of  her. 

"You  may  take  my  harm,  if  you  like,"  suggested  Miss 
Sellars,  as  we  crossed  St.  George's  Circus ;  and  linked,  we 
pursued  our  way  along  the  Kennington  Park  Road. 

Fortunately,  there  was  not  much  need  for  me  to  talk. 
Miss  Sellars  was  content  to  supply  most  of  the  conversa- 
tion herself,  and  all  of  it  was  about  herself. 

I  learned  that  her  instincts  since  childhood  had  been 
toward  gentility.  Nor  was  this  to  be  wondered  at,  see- 
ing that  her  family — on  her  mother's  side,  at  all  events, 
— were  connected  distinctly  with  "the  highest  in  the  land." 
Mesalliances,  however,  are  common  in  all  communities, 
and  one  of  them,  a  particularly  flagrant  specimen — her 
"Mar"  had,  alas!  contracted,  having  married — what  did 
I  think  ?  I  should  never  guess — a  waiter !  Miss  Sellars, 
stopping  in  the  act  of  crossing  Newington  Butts  to  shud- 
der at  the  recollection  of  her  female  parent's  shame,  was 
nearly  run  down  by  a  tramcar. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sellars  did  not  appear  to  have  "hit  it  off" 
together.  Could  one  wonder :  Mrs.  Sellars  with  an  uncle 
on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  Mr.  Sellars  with  one  on  Peck- 
ham  Rye?  I  gathered  his  calling  to  have  been,  chiefly, 
"three  shies  a  penny."  Mrs.  Sellars  was  now,  however, 
happily  dead ;  and  if  no  other  good  thing  had  come  out  of 
the  catastrophe,  it  had  determined  Miss  Sellars  to  take 
warning  by  her  mother's  error  and  avoid  connection 
with  the  lowly  born.  She  it  was  who,  with  my  help, 
would  lift  the  family  back  again  to  its  proper  position  in 
society. 

"It  used  to  be  a  joke  against  me,"  explained  Miss 
Sellars,  "heven  when  I  was  quite  a  child.  I  never  could 
tolerate  anything  low.  Why,  one  day  when  I  was  only 
seven  years  old,  what  do  you  think  happened  ?" 

I  confessed  my  inability  to  guess. 


The  Road  to  Freedom  255 

"Well,  ril  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Sellars ;  "it'll  just  show 
you.  Uncle  Joseph — that  was  father's  uncle,  you  under- 
stand?" 

I  assured  Miss  Sellars  that  the  point  was  fixed  in  my 
mind. 

"Well,  one  day  when  he  came  to  see  us  he  takes  a  cocoa- 
nut  out  of  his  pocket  and  offers  it  to  me.  'Thank  you,' 
I  says ;  'I  don't  heat  cocoanuts  that  have  been  shied  at  by 
just  anybody  and  missed !'  It  made  him  so  wild.  After 
that,"  explained  Miss  Sellars,  "they  used  to  call  me  at 
home  the  Princess  of  Wales." 

I  murmured  it  was  a  pretty  fancy. 

"Some  people,"  replied  Miss  Sellars,  with  a  giggle, 
"says  it  fits  me;  but,  of  course,  that's  only  their  non- 
sense." 

Not  knowing  what  to  reply,  I  remained  silent,  which 
appeared  to  somewhat  disappoint  Miss  Sellars. 

Out  of  the  Clapham  Road  we  turned  into  a  by-street 
of  two-storeyed  houses. 

"You'll  come  in  and  have  a  bit  of  supper?"  suggested 
Miss  Sellars.    "Mar's  quite  hanxious  to  see  you." 

I  found  sufficient  courage  to  say  I  was  not  feeling  well, 
and  would  much  rather  return  home. 

"Oh,  but  you  must  just  come  in  for  five  minutes,  dear. 
It'll  look  so  funny  if  you  don't.  I  told  'em  we  was  com- 
ing." 

"I  would  really  rather  not,"  I  urged ;  "some  other  even- 
ing." I  felt  a  presentiment,  I  confided  to  her,  that  on  this 
particular  evening  I  should  not  shine  to  advantage. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  be  so  shy,"  said  Miss  Sellars.  "I 
don't  like  shy  fellows — not  too  shy.  That's  silly."  And 
Miss  Sellars  took  my  arm  with  a  decided  grip,  making  it 
clear  to  me  that  escape  could  be  obtained  only  by  an  un- 
seemly struggle  in  the  street;  not  being  prepared  for 
which,  I  meekly  yielded. 

We  knocked  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  small  houses.  Miss 
Sellars  retaining  her  hold  upon  me  until  it  had  been 


256  Paul  Kelver 

opened  to  us  by  a  lank  young  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
closed  behind  us. 

"Don't  gentlemen  wear  coats  of  a  hevening  nowadays  ?" 
asked  Miss  Sellars,  tartly,  of  the  lank  young  man.  "New 
fashion  just  come  in?" 

"1  don't  know  what  gentlemen  wear  in  the  evening  or 
what  they  don't,"  retorted  the  lank  young  man,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  in  an  aggressive  mood.  "If  I  can  find  one 
in  this  street,  I'll  ast  him  and  let  you  know." 

"Mother  in  the  droaring-room  ?"  enquired  Miss  Sellars, 
ignoring  the  retort. 

"They're  all  of  'em  in  the  parlour,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  returned  the  lank  young  man,  "the  whole  bloom- 
ing shoot.  If  you  stand  up  against  the  wall  and  don't 
breathe,  there'll  just  be  room  for  you." 

Sweeping  by  the  lank  young  man.  Miss  Sellars  opened 
the  parlour  door,  and  towing  me  in  behind  her,  shut  it. 

"Well,  Mar,  here  we  are,"  announced  Miss  Sellars. 

An  enormously  stout  lady,  ornamented  with  a  cap  that 
appeared  to  have  been  made  out  of  a  bandanna  handker- 
chief, rose  to  greet  us,  thus  revealing  the  fact  that  she  had 
been  sitting  upon  an  extremely  small  horsehair-covered 
easy-chair,  the  disproportion  between  the  lady  and  her 
support  being  quite  pathetic. 

"I  am  charmed,  Mr.  " 

"Kelver,"  supplied  Miss  Sellars. 

"Kelver,  to  make  your  ac-quain-tance,"  recited  Mrs. 
Sellars  in  the  tone  of  one  repeating  a  lesson. 

I  bowed,  and  murmured  that  the  honour  was  entirely 
mine. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Sellars.  "Pray  be 
seated." 

Mrs.  Sellars  herself  set  the  example  by  suddenly  giving 
way  and  dropping  down  into  her  chair,  which  thus  again 
became  invisible.    It  received  her  with  an  agonised  groan. 

Indeed,  the  insistence  with  which  this  article  cf  furni- 
ture throughout  the  evening  ca^.kd  attention  to  its  suf- 


The  Road  to  Freedom  257 

ferings  was  really  quite  distracting.  With  every  breath 
that  Mrs.  Sellars  took  it  moaned  wearily.  There  were 
moments  when  it  literally  shrieked.  I  could  not  have  ac- 
cepted Mrs.  Sellars'  offer  had  I  wished,  there  being  no 
chair  vacant  and  no  room  for  another.  A  young  man 
with  watery  eyes,  sitting  just  behind  me  between  a  fat 
young  lady  and  a  lean  one,  rose  and  suggested  my  taking 
his  place.  Miss  Sellars  introduced  me  to  him  as  her 
cousin  Joseph  something  or  other,  and  we  shook 
hands. 

The  watery-eyed  Joseph  remarked  that  it  had  been  a 
fine  day  between  the  showers,  and  hoped  that  the  morrow 
would  be  either  wet  or  dry;  upon  which  the  lean  young 
lady,  having  slapped  him,  asked  admiringly  of  the  fat 
young  lady  if  he  wasn't  a  "silly  fool;"  to  which  the  fat 
young  lady  replied,  with  somewhat  unnecessary  severity, 
I  thought,  that  no  one  could  help  being  what  they  were 
born.  To  this  the  lean  young  lady  retorted  that  it  was 
with  precisely  similar  reflection  that  she  herself  controlled 
her  own  feelings  when  tempted  to  resent  the  fat  young 
lady's  "nasty  jealous  temper." 

The  threatened  quarrel  was  nipped  in  the  bud  by  the 
discretion  of  Miss  Sellars,  who  took  the  opportunity  of 
the  fat  young  lady's  momentary  speechlessness  to  intro- 
duce me  promptly  to  both  of  them.  They  also,  I  learned, 
were  cousins.  The  lean  girl  said  she  had  "  erd  on  me," 
and  immediately  fell  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  giggles ; 
of  which  the  watery-eyed  Joseph  requested  me  to  take  no 
notice,  explaining  that  she  always  went  off  like  that  at 
exactly  three-quarters  to  the  half-hour  every  evening, 
Sundays  and  holidays  excepted ;  that  she  had  taken  every- 
thing possible  for  it  without  effect,  and  that  what  he  him- 
self advised  was  that  she  should  have  it  off. 

The  fat  girl,  seizing  the  chance  afforded  her,  remarked 
genteelly  that  she  too  had  "heard  hof  me,"  with  emphasis 
upon  the  "hof."  She  also  remarked  it  was  a  long  walk 
from  Blackfriars  Bridge. 


258 


Paul  Kelver 


"All  depends  upon  the  company,  eh?  Bet  they  didn't 
find  it  too  long." 

This  came  from  a  loud-voiced,  red-faced  man  sitting  on 
the  sofa  beside  a  somewhat  melancholy-looking  female 
dressed  in  bright  green.  These  twain  I  discovered  to 
be  Uncle  and  Aunt  Gutton.  From  an  observation  dropped 
later  in  the  evening  concerning  government  restrictions 
on  the  sale  of  methylated  spirit,  and  hastily  smothered,  I 
gathered  that  their  Hne  was  oil  and  colour. 

Mr.  Gutton's  forte  appeared  to  be  badinage.  He  it 
was  who,  on  my  explaining  my  heightened  colour  as  due 
to  the  closeness  of  the  evening,  congratulated  his  niece  on 
having  secured  so  warm  a  partner. 

"Will  be  jolly  handy,"  shouted  Uncle  Gutton,  "for 
Rosina,  seeing  she's  always  complaining  of  her  cold  feet." 

Here  the  lank  young  man  attempted  to  squeeze  himself 
into  the  room,  but  found  his  entrance  barred  by  the 
square,  squat  figure  of  the  watery-eyed  young  man. 

"Don't  push,"  advised  the  watery-eyed  young  man. 
"Walk  over  me  quietly." 

"Well,  why  don't  yer  get  out  of  the  way,"  growled  the 
lank  young  man,  now  coated,  but  still  aggressive. 

"Where  am  I  to  get  to?"  asked  the  watery-eyed  young 
man,  with  some  reason.  "Say  the  word  and  I'll  'ang  my- 
self up  to  the  gas  bracket." 

"In  my  courting  days,"  roared  Uncle  Gutton,  "the  girls 
used  to  be  able  to  find  seats,  even  if  there  wasn't  enough 
chairs  to  go  all  round." 

The  sentiment  was  received  with  varying  degrees  of 
approbation.  The  watery-eyed  young  man,  sitting  down, 
put  the  lean  young  lady  on  his  knee,  and  in  spite  of  her 
struggles  and  sounding  slaps,  heroically  retained  her 
there. 

"Now,  then,  Rosie,"  shouted  Uncle  Gutton,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  constituted  himself  master  of  the  ceremo- 
nies, "don't  stand  about,  my  girl ;  you'll  get  tired." 

Left  to  herself,  I  am  inclined  to  think  my  fiancee  would 


The  Road  to  Freedom  259 

have  spared  me ;  but  Uncle  Gutton,  having  been  Invited  to 
a  love  comedy,  was  not  to  be  cheated  of  any  part  of  the 
performance,  and  the  audience  clearly  being  with  him, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  compliance.  I  seated  myself, 
and  amid  plaudits  accommodated  the  ample  and  heavy 
Rosina  upon  my  knee. 

"Good-bye,"  called  out  to  me  the  watery-eyed  young 
man,  as  behind  the  fair  Rosina  I  disappeared  from  his 
view.    "See  you  again  later  on." 

"I  used  to  be  a  plump  girl  myself  before  I  married," 
observed  Aunt  Gutton.  "Plump  as  butter  I  was  at  one 
time." 

"It  isn't  what  one  eats,"  said  the  maternal  Sellars.  "I 
myself  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  fly,  and  my  legs " 

"That'll  do.  Mar,"  interrupted  the  filial  Sellars,  tartly. 

"I  was  only  going  to  say,  my  dear " 

"We  all  know  what  you  was  going  to  say,  Mar,"  re- 
torted Miss  Sellars.  "We've  heard  it  before,  and  it  isn't 
interesting." 

Mrs.  Sellars  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  'Ard  work  and  plenty  of  it  keeps  you  thin  enough,  / 
notice,"  remarked  the  lank  young  man,  with  bitterness. 
To  him  I  was  now  introduced,  he  being  Mr.  George 
Sellars.     "Seen  'im  before,"  was  his  curt  greeting. 

At  supper — referred  to  by  Mrs.  Sellars  again  in  the 
tone  of  one  remembering  a  lesson,  as  a  cold  col-la-tion, 
with  the  accent  on  the  "tion" — I  sat  between  Miss  Sellars 
and  the  lean  young  lady,  with  Aunt  and  Uncle  Gutton 
opposite  to  us.  It  was  remarked  with  approval  that  I 
did  not  appear  to  be  hungry. 

"Had  too  many  kisses  afore  he  started,"  suggested 
Uncle  Gutton,  with  his  mouth  full  of  cold  roast  pork  and 
pickles.  "Wonderfully  nourishing  thing,  kisses,  eh? 
Look  at  mother  and  me.     That's  all  we  live  on." 

Aunt  Gutton  sighed,  and  observed  that  she  had  always 
been  a  poor  feeder. 

The  watery-eyed  young  man,  observing  he  had  never 


26o  Paul  Kelver 

tasted  them  himself — at  which  sally  there  was  much 
laughter — said  he  would  not  mind  trying  a  sample  if  the 
lean  young  lady  would  kindly  pass  him  one. 

The  lean  young  lady  opined  that,  not  being  used  to  high 
living,  it  might  disagree  with  him. 

"Just  one,"  pleaded  the  watery-eyed  young  man,  "to  go 
with  this  bit  of  cracklin'." 

The  lean  young  lady,  amid  renewed  applause,  first 
thoughtfully  wiping  her  mouth,  acceded  to  his  request. 

The  watery-eyed  young  man  turned  it  over  with  the  air 
of  a  gounnet. 

"Not  bad,"  was  his  verdict.  "Reminds  me  of  onions." 
At  this  there  was  another  burst  of  laughter. 

"Now  then,  ain't  Paul  goin'  to  have  one?"  shouted  Un- 
cle Gutton,  when  the  laughter  had  subsided. 

Amid  silence,  feeling  as  wretched  as  perhaps  I  have 
ever  felt  in  my  life  before  or  since,  I  received  one  from 
the  gracious  Miss  Sellars,  wet  and  sounding. 

"Looks  better  for  it  already,"  commented  the  delighted 
Uncle  Gutton.     "He'll  soon  get  fat  on  'em." 

"Not  too  many  at  first,"  advised  the  watery-eyed  young 
man.     "Looks  to  me  as  if  he's  got  a  weak  stomach." 

I  think,  had  the  meal  lasted  much  longer,  I  should  have 
made  a  dash  for  the  street ;  the  contemplation  of  such  step 
was  forming  in  my  mind.  But  Miss  Sellars,  looking  at 
her  watch,  declared  we  must  be  getting  home  at  once, 
for  the  which  I  could  have  kissed  her  voluntarily;  and, 
being  a  young  lady  of  decision,  at  once  rose  and  com- 
menced leave-taking.  Polite  protests  were  attempted,  but 
these,  with  enthusiastic  assistance  from  myself,  she  swept 
aside. 

"Don't  want  any  one  to  walk  home  with  you?"  sug- 
gested Uncle  Gutton.  "Sure  you  won't  feel  lonely  by 
yourselves,  eh?" 

"We  shan't  come  to  no  harm,"  assured  him  Miss  Sel- 
lars. 

"P'raps  you're  right,"  agreed  Uncle  Gutton.     "There 


The  Road  to  Freedom  261 

don't  seem  to  be  much  of  the  fiery  and  untamed  about 
him,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  'Slow  waters  run  deep/  "  reminded  us  Aunt  Gutton, 
with  a  waggish  shake  of  her  head. 

*'No  question  about  the  slow,"  assented  Uncle  Gutton. 

*'If  you  don't  like  him — "  observed  Miss  Sellars,  speak- 
ing with  dignity. 

'To  be  quite  candid  with  you,  my  girl,  I  don't,"  an- 
swered Uncle  Gutton,  whose  temper,  maybe  as  the  result 
of  too  much  cold  pork  and  whiskey,  seemed  to  have  sud- 
denly changed. 

"Well,  he  happens  to  be  good  enough  for  me,"  re- 
commenced Miss  Sellars. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  a  niece  of  mine  say  so,"  interrupted 
Uncle  Gutton.     "If  you  want  my  opinion  of  him " 

"If  ever  I  do  I'll  call  round  some  time  when  you're  so- 
ber and  ast  you  for  it,"  returned  Miss  Sellars.  "And  as 
for  being  your  niece,  you  was  here  when  I  came,  and  I 
don't  see  very  well  as  how  I  could  have  got  out  of  it.  You 
needn't  throw  that  in  my  teeth." 

The  gust  was  dispersed  by  the  practical  remark  of 
brother  George  to  the  effect  that  the  last  tram  for  Wal- 
worth left  the  Oval  at  eleven-thirty;  to  which  he  further 
added  the  suggestion  that  the  Clapham  Road  was  wide 
and  well  adapted  to  a  row. 

"There  ain't  going  to  be  no  rows,"  replied  Uncle  Gut- 
ton, returning  to  amiability  as  suddenly  as  he  had  de- 
parted from  it.  "We  understand  each  other,  don't  we, 
my  girl?" 

"That's  all  right,  uncle.  I  know  what  you  mean,"  re- 
turned Miss  Sellars,  with  equal  handsomeness. 

"Bring  him  round  again  when  he's  feeling  better," 
added  Uncle  Gutton,  "and  we'll  have  another  look  at 
him." 

"What  you  want,"  advised  the  watery-eyed  young  man 
on  shaking  hands  with  me,  "is  complete  rest  and  a  tomb- 
stone." 


262  Paul  Kelver 

I  wished  at  the  time  I  could  have  followed  his  prescrip- 
tion. 

The  maternal  Sellars  waddled  after  us  into  the  passage, 
which  she  completely  blocked.  She  told  me  she  was  de- 
light-ted to  have  met  me,  and  that  she  was  always  at 
home  on  Sundays. 

I  said  I  would  remember  it,  and  thanked  her  warmly  for 
a  pleasant  evening,  at  Miss  Sellars'  request  calling  her 
Ma. 

Outside,  Miss  Sellars  agreed  that  my  presentiment  had 
proved  correct — ^that  I  had  not  shone  to  advantage.  Our 
journey  home  on  a  tramcar  was  a  somewhat  silent  pro- 
ceeding. At  the  door  of  her  room  she  forgave  me,  and 
kissed  me  good  night.  Had  I  been  frank  with  her,  I 
should  have  thanked  her  for  that  evening's  experience. 
It  had  made  my  course  plain  to  me. 

The  next  day,  which  was  Thursday,  I  wandered  about 
the  streets  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  I  slipped 
in  quietly,  passing  Miss  Sellars'  door  with  my  boots  in 
my  hand. 

After  Mr.  Lott's  departure  on  Friday,  which,  fortu- 
nately, was  pay-day,  I  set  my  desk  in  order  and  confided 
to  Minikin  written  instructions  concerning  all  matters  un- 
finished. 

"I  shall  not  be  here  to-morrow,"  I  told  him.  "Going  to 
follow  your  advice." 

"Found  anything  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  I  answered. 

"Suppose  you  can't  get  anything?" 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,"  I  replied,  "I  can 
hang  myself." 

"Well,  you  know  the  girl.  Maybe  you  are  right,"  he 
agreed. 

"Hope  it  won't  throw  much  extra  work  on  you,"  I 
said. 

"Well,  I  shan't  be  catching  it  if  it  does,"  was  his  an- 
swer,   "That's  all  right." 


The  Road  to  Freedom  263 

He  walked  with  me  to  the  "Angel,"  and  there  we 
parted. 

"If  you  do  get  on  to  the  stage,"  he  said,  "and  it's  any- 
thing worth  seeing,  and  you  send  me  an  order,  and  I  can 
find  the  time,  maybe  I'll  come  and  see  you." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  promised  support  and  jumped 
upon  the  tram. 

The  O'Kelly's  address  was  in  Belsize  Square.  I  was 
about  to  ring  and  knock,  as  requested  by  a  highly-polished 
brass  plate,  when  I  became  aware  of  pieces  of  small  coal 
falling  about  me  on  the  doorstep.  Looking  up,  I  per- 
ceived the  O'Kelly  leaning  out  of  an  attic  window.  From 
signs  I  gathered  I  was  to  retire  from  the  doorstep  and 
wait.  In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened  and  his  hand 
beckoned  me  to  enter. 

"Walk  quietly,"  he  whispered;  and  on  tip-toe  we 
climbed  up  to  the  attic  from  where  had  fallen  the  coal. 
"I've  been  waiting  for  ye,"  explained  the  O'Kelly,  speak- 
ing low.  "Me  wife — a  good  woman,  Paul ;  sure,  a  better 
woman  never  lived ;  ye'll  like  her  when  ye  know  her,  later 
on — she  might  not  care  about  ye're  calling.  She'd  want 
to  know  where  I  met  ye,  and — ye  understand  ?  Besides," 
added  the  O'Kelly,  "we  can  smoke  up  here;"  and  seat- 
ing himself  where  he  could  keep  an  eye  upon  the 
door,  near  to  a  small  cupboard  out  of  which  he  pro- 
duced a  pipe  still  alight,  the  O'Kelly  prepared  himself  to 
listen. 

I  told  him  briefly  the  reason  of  my  visit. 

"It  was  my  fault,  Paul,"  he  was  good  enough  to  say; 
"my  fault  entirely.  Between  ourselves,  it  was  a  damned 
silly  idea,  that  party,  the  whole  thing  altogether.  Don't 
ye  think  so?" 

I  replied  that  I  was  naturally  prejudiced  against  it  my- 
self. 

"Most  unfortunate  for  me,"  continued  the  O'Kelly ;  "I 
know  that.  Me  cabman  took  me  to  Hammersmith  in- 
stead  of   Hampstead  ;  said   I   told   him   Hammersmith. 


264  Paul  Kelver 

Didn't  get  home  here  till  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Most  unfortunate — under  the  circumstances." 

I  could  quite  imagine  it. 

"But  I'm  glad  ye've  come,"  said  the  O'Kelly.  "I  had  a 
notion  ye  did  something  foolish  that  evening,  but  I 
couldn't  remember  precisely  what.  It's  been  worrying 
me. 

"It's  been  worrying  me  also,  I  can  assure  you,"  I  told 
him ;  and  I  gave  him  an  account  of  my  Wednesday  even- 
ing's experience. 

"I'll  go  round  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  "and  see 
one  or  two  people.  It's  not  a  bad  idea,  that  of  Jarman's. 
I  think  I  may  be  able  to  arrange  something  for  ye." 

He  fixed  a  time  for  me  to  call  again  upon  him  the  next 
day,  when  Mrs.  O'Kelly  would  be  away  from  home.  He 
instructed  me  to  walk  quietly  up  and  down  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  road  with  my  eye  on  the  attic  window,  and 
not  to  come  across  unless  he  waved  a  handkerchief. 

Rising  to  go,  I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness.  "Don't 
put  it  that  way,  me  dear  Paul,"  he  answered.  "If  I  don't 
get  ye  out  of  this  scrape  I  shall  never  forgive  me- 
self.  If  we  damned  silly  fools  don't  help  one  another," 
he  added,  with  his  pleasant  laugh,  "who  is  to  help  us  ?" 

We  crept  downstairs  as  we  had  crept  up.  As  we 
reached  the  first  floor,  the  drawing-room  door  suddenly 
opened. 

"William !"  cried  a  sharp  voice. 

"Me  dear,"  answered  the  O'Kelly,  snatching  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  thrusting  it,  still  alight,  into  his 
trousers  pocket.  I  made  the  rest  of  the  descent  by  my- 
self, and  slipping  out,  closed  the  door  behind  me  as  noise- 
lessly as  possible. 

Again  I  did  not  return  to  Nelson  Square  until  the  early 
hours,  and  the  next  morning  did  not  venture  out  until  I 
had  heard  Miss  Sellars,  who  appeared  to  be  in  a  bad  tem- 
per, leave  the  house.  Then  running  to  the  top  of  the 
kitchen  stairs,  I  called  for  Mrs.  Peedles.     I  told  her  I 


The  Road  to  Freedom  265 

was  going  to  leave  her,  and,  judging  the  truth  to  be  the 
simplest  explanation,  I  told  her  the  reason  why. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Peedles,  "I  am  only  too  glad  to 
hear  it.  It.  wasn't  for  me  to  interfere,  but  I  couldn't  help 
seeing  you  were  making  a  fool  of  yourself.  I  only  hope 
you'll  get  clear  off,  and  you  may  depend  upon  me  to  do  all 
I  can  to  help  you." 

''You  don't  think  I'm  acting  dishonourably,  do  you, 
Mrs.  Peedles  ?"  I  asked. 

"My  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Peedles,  "it's  a  difficult  world 
to  live  in — leastways,  that's  been  my  experience  of  it." 

I  had  just  completed  my  packing — it  had  not  taken  me 
long — when  I  heard  upon  the  stairs  the  heavy  panting 
that  always  announced  to  me  the  up-coming  of  Mrs. 
Peedles.  She  entered  with  a  bundle  of  old  manuscripts 
under  her  arm,  torn  and  tumbled  booklets  of  various 
shapes  and  sizes.  These  she  plumped  down  upon  the 
rickety  table,  and  herself  upon  the  nearest  chair. 

"Put  them  in  your  box,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Peedles. 
"They'll  come  in  useful  to  you  later  on." 

I  glanced  at  the  bundle.  I  saw  it  was  a  collection  of 
old  plays  in  manuscript — prompt  copies,  scored,  cut  and 
interlined.  The  top  one  I  noticed  was  "The  Bloodspot: 
Or  the  Maiden,  the  Miser  and  the  Murderer ;"  the  second, 
"The  Female  Highwayman." 

"Everybody's  forgotten  'em,"  explained  Mrs.  Peedles, 
"but  there's  some  good  stuff  in  all  of  them." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do  with  them  ?"  I  enquired. 

"Just  whatever  you  like,  my  dear,"  explained  Mrs.  Pee- 
dles. "It's  quite  safe.  They're  all  of  'em  dead,  the 
authors  of  'em.  I've  picked  'em  out  most  carefully.  You 
just  take  a  scene  from  one  and  a  scene  from  the  other. 
With  judgment  and  your  talent  you'll  make  a  dozen  good 
plays  out  of  that  little  lot  when  your  time  comes." 

"But  they  wouldn't  be  my  plays,  Mrs.  Peedles,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"They  will  if  I  give  them  to  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Pee- 


266  Paul  Kelver 

dies.  "You  put  'em  in  your  box.  And  never  mind  the 
bit  of  rent,"  added  Mrs.  Peedles;  "you  can  pay  me  that 
later  on." 

I  kissed  the  kind  old  soul  good-bye  and  took  her  gift 
with  me  to  my  new  lodgings  in  Camden  Town.  Many 
a  time  have  I  been  hard  put  to  it  for  plot  or  scene,  and 
more  than  once  in  weak  mood  have  I  turned  with  guilty 
intent  the  torn  and  crumpled  pages  of  Mrs.  Peedles's  do- 
nation to  my  literary  equipment.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  able 
to  put  my  hand  upon  my  heart  and  reflect  that  never  yet 
have  I  yielded  to  the  temptation.  Always  have  I  laid  them 
back  within  their  drawer,  saying  to  myself,  with  stern  re- 
proof : 

"No,  no,  Paul.  Stand  or  fall  by  your  own  merits. 
Never  plagiarise — in  any  case,  not  from  this  'little  lot.'  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LEADS  TO  A  MEETING. 

"Don't  be  nervous,"  said  the  O'Kelly,  "and  don't  try 
to  do  too  much.  You  have  a  very  fair  voice,  but  it's  not 
powerful.     Keep  cool  and  open  your  mouth." 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  We  were  stand- 
ing at  the  entrance  of  the  narrow  court  leading  to  the 
stage  door.  For  a  fortnight  past  the  O'Kelly  had  been 
coaching  me.  It  had  been  nervous  work  for  both  of  us, 
but  especially  for  the  O'Kelly.  Mrs.  O'Kelly,  a  thin, 
acid-looking  lady,  of  whom  I  once  or  twice  had  caught  a 
glimpse  while  promenading  Belsize  Square  awaiting  the 
O'Kelly's  signal,  was  a  serious-minded  lady,  with  a  con- 
scientious objection  to  all  music  not  of  a  sacred  character. 
With  the  hope  of  winning  the  O'Kelly  from  one  at  least 
of  his  sinful  tendencies,  the  piano  had  been  got  rid  of,  and 
its  place  in  the  drawing-room  filled  by  an  American  or- 
gan of  exceptionally  lugubrious  tone.  With  this  we  had 
had  to  make  shift,  and  though  the  O'Kelly — a  veritable 
musical  genius — had  succeeded  in  evolving  from  it  an 
accompaniment  to  "Sally  in  Our  Alley"  less  misleading 
and  confusing  than  might  otherwise  have  been  the  case, 
the  result  had  not  been  to  lighten  our  labours.  My  ren- 
dering of  the  famous  ballad  had,  in  consequence,  acquired 
a  dolefulness  not  intended  by  the  composer.  Sung  as  I 
sang  it,  the  theme  became,  to  employ  a  definition  since 
grown  hackneyed  as  applied  to  Art,  a  problem  ballad.  In- 
voluntarily one  wondered  whether  the  marriage  would 
turn  out  as  satisfactorily  as  the  young  man  appeared  to 
anticipate.  Was  there  not,  when  one  came  to  think  of  it, 
a  melancholy,  a  pessimism  ingrained  within  the  tempera- 
ment of  the  complainful  hero  that  would  ill  assort  with 


268  Paul  Kelver 

those  instincts  toward  frivolity  the  careful  observer  could 
not  avoid  discerning  in  the  charming  yet  nevertheless 
somewhat  shallow  character  of  Sally. 

''Lighter,  lighter.  Not  so  soulful,"  would  demand  the 
O'Kelly,  as  the  solemn  notes  rolled  jerkily  from  the  groan- 
ing instrument  beneath  his  hands. 

Once  we  were  nearly  caught,  Mrs.  O'Kelly  returning 
from  a  district  visitors'  committee  meeting  earlier  than 
was  expected.  Hastily  I  was  hidden  in  a  small  conserva- 
tory ad  jutting  from  the  first  floor  landing,  where,  crouch- 
ing behind  flower-pots,  I  listened  in  fear  and  trembling 
to  the  severe  cross-examination  of  the  O'Kelly. 

"William,  do  not  prevaricate.     It  was  not  a  hymn." 

"Me  dear,  so  much  depends  upon  the  time.  Let  me 
give  ye  an  example  of  what  I  mean." 

"William,  pray  in  my  presence  not  to  play  tricks  with 
sacred  melodies.  'If  you  have  no  respect  for  religion, 
please  remember  that  I  have.  Besides,  why  should  you  be 
playing  hymns  in  any  time  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning? 
It  is  not  like  you,  William,  and  I  do  not  credit  your  ex- 
planation. And  you  were  singing.  I  distinctly  heard  the 
word  'Sally'  as  I  opened  the  door." 

"Salvation,  me  dear,"  corrected  the  O'Kelly. 

"Your  enunciation,  William,  is  not  usually  so  much  at 
fault." 

"A  little  hoarseness,  me  dear,"  explained  the  O'Kelly. 

"Your  voice  did  not  sound  hoarse.  Perhaps  it  will  be 
better  if  we  do  not  pursue  the  subject  further." 

With  this  the  O'Kelly  appeared  to  agree. 

"A  lady  a  little  difficult  to  get  on  with  when  ye're  feel- 
ing well  and  strong,"  so  the  O'Kelly  would  explain 
her;  "but  if  ye  happen  to  be  ill,  one  of  the  kindest,  most 
devoted  of  women.  When  I  was  down  with  typhoid  three 
years  ago,  a  tenderer  nurse  no  man  could  have  had.  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  And  so  she  would  be  again  to-mor- 
row, if  there  was  anything  serious  the  matter  with  me." 

I  murmured  the  well-known  quotation. 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  269 

"Mrs.  O'Kelly  to  a  T,"  concurred  the  O'Kelly.  "I 
sometimes  wonder  if  Lady  Scott  may  not  have  been  the 
same  sort  of  woman." 

"The  unfortunate  part  of  it  is,"  continued  the  O'Kelly, 
"that  I'm  such  a  healthy  beggar;  it  don't  give  her  a 
chance.  If  I  were  only  a  chronic  invalid,  now,  there's 
nothing  that  woman  would  not  do  to  make  me  happy. 
As  it  is — "  The  O'Kelly  struck  a  chord.  We  resumed 
our  studies. 

But  to  return  to  our  conversation  at  the  stage  door. 

"Meet  me  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese  at  one  o'clock,"  said 
the  O'Kelly,  shaking  hands.  "If  ye  don't  get  on  here, 
we'll  try  something  else ;  but  I've  spoken  to  Hodgson,  and 
I  think  ye  will.     Good  luck  to  ye !" 

He  went  his  way  and  I  mine.  In  a  glass  box  just  be- 
hind the  door  a  cUrved-nose,  round-eyed  little  man,  look- 
ing like  an  angry  bird  in  a  cage,  demanded  of  me  my 
business.     I  showed  him  my  letter  of  appointment. 

"Up  the  passage,  across  the  stage,  along  the  corridor, 
first  floor,  second  door  on  the  right,"  he  instructed  me  in 
one  breath,  and  shut  the  window  with  a  snap. 

I  proceeded  up  the  passage.  It  somewhat  surprised 
me  to  discover  that  I  was  not  in  the  least  excited  at  the 
thought  of  this,  my  first  introduction  to  "behind  the 
scenes." 

I  recall  my  father's  asking  a  young  soldier  on  his  return 
from  the  Crimea  what  had  been  his  sensations  at  the 
commencement  of  his  first  charge. 

"Well,"  replied  the  young  fellow,  "I  was  worrying  all 
the  time,  remembering  I  had  rushed  out  leaving  the  beer 
tap  running  in  the  canteen,  and  I  could  not  forget  it." 

So  far  as  the  stage  I  found  my  way  in  safety.  Pausing 
for  a  moment  and  glancing  round,  my  impression  was  not 
so  much  disillusionment  concerning  all  things  theatrical 
as  realisation  of  my  worst  forebodings.  In  that  one  mo- 
ment all  glamour  connected  with  the  stage  fell  from  me, 
nor  has  it  since  ever  returned  to  me.     From  the  tawdry 


270  Paul  Kelver 

decorations  of  the  auditorium  to  the  childish  make-belief 
littered  around  on  the  stage,  I  saw  the  Theatre  a  painted 
thing  of  shreds  and  patches — the  grown  child's  doll's- 
house.  The  Drama  may  improve  us,  elevate  us,  interest 
and  teach  us.  I  am  sure  it  does;  long  may  it  flourish! 
But  so  likewise  does  the  dressing  and  undressing  of  dolls, 
the  opening  of  the  front  of  the  house,  and  the  tenderly 
putting  of  them  away  to  bed  in  rooms  they  completely 
fill,  train  our  little  dears  to  the  duties  and  the  joys  of 
motherhood.  Toys !  what  wise  child  despises  them  ?  Art, 
fiction,  the  musical  glasses :  are  they  not  preparing  us  for 
the  time,  however  distant,  when  we  shall  at  last  be  grown 
up? 

In  a  maze  of  ways  beyond  the  stage  I  lost  myself,  but 
eventually,  guided  by  voices,  came  to  a  large  room  fur- 
nished barely  with  many  chairs  and  worn  settees,  and  here 
I  found  some  twenty  to  thirty  ladies  and  gentlemen  al- 
ready seated.  They  were  of  varying  ages,  sizes  and  ap- 
pearance, but  all  of  them  alike  in  having  about  them  that 
impossible-to-define  but  impossible-to-mistake  suggestion 
of  theatricality.  The  men  were  chiefly  remarkable  for 
having  no  hair  on  their  faces,  but  a  good  deal  upon  their 
heads ;  the  ladies,  one  and  all,  were  blessed  with  remark- 
ably pink  and  white  complexions  and  exceptionally  bright 
eyes.  The  conversation,  carried  on  in  subdued  but  pene- 
trating voices,  was  chiefly  of  "him"  and  "her."  Every- 
body appeared  to  be  on  an  affectionate  footing  with  every- 
body else,  the  terms  of  address  being  "My  dear,"  "My 
love,"  "Old  girl,"  "Old  chappie,"  Christian  names — when 
name  of  any  sort  was  needful — alone  being  employed.  I 
hesitated  for  a  minute  with  the  door  in  my  hand,  fearing 
I  had  stumbled  upon  a  family  gathering.  As,  however, 
nobody  seemed  disconcerted  at  my  entry,  I  ventured  to 
take  a  vacant  seat  next  to  an  extremely  small  and  boyish- 
looking  gentleman  and  to  ask  him  if  this  was  the  room 
in  which  I,  an  applicant  for  a  place  in  the  chorus  of  the 
forthcoming  comic  opera,  ought  to  be  waiting. 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  271 

He  had  large,  fishy  eyes,  with  which  he  looked  me  up 
and  down.  For  such  a  length  of  time  he  remained  thus  re- 
garding me  in  silence  that  a  massive  gentleman  sitting 
near,  who  had  overheard,  took  it  upon  himself  to  reply 
in  the  affirmative,  adding  that  from  what  he  knew  of  But- 
terworth  we  would  all  of  us  be  waiting  here  a  damned 
sight  longer  than  any  gentleman  should  keep  other  ladies 
and  gentlemen  waiting  for  no  reason  at  all. 

"I  think  it  exceedingly  bad  form,"  observed  the  fishy- 
eyed  gentleman,  in  deep  contralto  tones,  **for  any  gentle- 
man to  take  it  upon  himself  to  reply  to  a  remark  addressed 
to  quite  another  gentleman." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  retorted  the  large  gentleman.  "I 
thought  you  were  asleep." 

''I  think  it  very  ill  manners,"  remarked  the  small  gen- 
tlemen in  the  same  slow  and  impressive  tones,  "for  any 
gentleman  to  tell  another  gentleman,  who  happens  to  be 
wide  awake,  that  he  thought  he  was  asleep." 

"Sir,"  returned  the  massive  gentleman,  assuming  with 
the  help  of  a  large  umbrella  a  quite  Johnsonian  attitude, 
"I  decline  to  alter  my  manners  to  suit  your  taste." 

"If  you  are  satisfied  with  them,"  replied  the  small  gen- 
tleman, "I  cannot  help  it.  But  I  think  you  are  making 
a  mistake." 

"Does  anybody  know  what  the  opera  is  about?"  asked 
a  bright  little  woman  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Does  anybody  ever  know  what  a  comic  opera  is 
about?"  asked  another  lady,  whose  appearance  suggested 
experience. 

"I  once  asked  the  author,"  observed  a  weary-looking 
gentleman,  speaking  from  a  corner.  "His  reply  was : 
'Well,  if  you  had  asked  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  re- 
hearsals I  might  have  been  able  to  tell  you,  but  damned 
if  I  could  now !" 

"It  wouldn't  surprise  me,"  observed  a  good-looking 
gentleman  in  a  velvet  coat,  "if  there  occurred  somewhere 
in  the  proceedings  a  drinking  chorus  for  male  voices." 


2/2  Paul  Kelver 

'Tossibly,  if  we  are  good,"  added  a  thin  lady  with 
golden  hair,  "the  heroine  will  confide  to  us  her  love  trou- 
bles, which  will  interest  us  and  excite  us." 

The  door  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  opened  and 
a  name  was  caled.  An  elderly  lady  rose  and  went 
out. 

"Poor  old  Gertie!"  remarked  sympathetically  the  thin 
lady  with  the  golden  hair.  "Fm  told  that  she  really  had 
a  voice  once." 

"When  poor  young  Bond  first  came  to  London,"  said 
the  massive  gentleman  who  was  sitting  on  my  left,  "I  re- 
member his  telling  me  he  applied  to  Lord  Barrymore's 
'tiger,'  Alexander  Lee,  I  mean,  of  course,  who  was  then 
running  the  Strand  Theatre,  'for  a  place  in  the  chorus. 
Lee  heard  him  sing  two  lines,  and  then  jumped  up. 
'Thanks,  that'll  do;  good  morning,'  says  Lee.  Bond 
knew  he  had  got  a  good  voice,  so  he  asked  Lee  what  was 
wrong.  'What's  wrong?'  shouts  Lee.  'Do  you  think  I 
hire  a  chorus  to  show  up  my  principals  ?'  " 

"Having  regard  to  the  company  present,"  commented 
the  fishy-eyed  gentleman,  "I  consider  that  anecdote  as  dis- 
tinctly lacking  in  tact." 

The  feeling  of  the  company  appeared  to  be  with  the 
fish-eyed  young  man. 

For  the  next  half  hour  the  door  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room  continued  to  open  and  close,  devouring,  ogre- 
fashion,  each  time  some  dainty  human  morsel,  now  chorus 
gentleman,  now  chorus  lady.  Conversation  among  our 
thinning  ranks  became  more  fitful,  a  growing  anxiety 
making  for  silence. 

At  length,  "Mr.  Horace  Moncrieff"  called  the  voice  of 
the  unseen  Charon.  In  common  with  the  rest,  I  glanced 
round  languidly  to  see  what  sort  of  man  "Mr.  Horace 
Moncrieff"  might  be.  The  door  was  pushed  open  fur- 
ther. Charon,  now  revealed  as  a  pale-faced  young  man 
with  a  drooping  moustache,  put  his  head  into  the  room 
and  repeated  impatiently  his  invitation  to  the  apparently 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  273 

coy  Moncrieff.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  was 
Mr.  Horace  Moncrieff. 

/'So  glad  you've  found  yourself,"  said  the  pale-faced 
young  man,  as  I  joined  him  at  the  door.  *Tlease  don't 
lose  yourself  again ;  we're  rather  pressed  for  time." 

I  crossed  with  him  through  a  deserted  refreshment 
bar — one  of  the  saddest  of  sights — into  a  room  beyond. 
A  melancholy-looking  gentleman  was  seated  at  the  piano. 
Beside  him  stood  a  tall,  handsome  man,  who  was  opening 
and  reading  rapidly  from  a  bundle  of  letters  he  held  in  his 
hand.  A  big,  burly,  bored-looking  gentleman  was  mak- 
ing desperate  efforts  to  be  amused  at  the  staccato  conver- 
sation of  a  sharp-faced,  restless-eyed  gentleman,  whose 
peculiarity  was  that  he  never  by  any  chance  looked  at 
the  person  to  whom  he  was  talking,  but  always  at  some- 
thing or  somebody  else. 

''Moncrieff?"  enquired  the  tall,  handsome  man — whom 
I  later  discovered  to  be  Mr.  Hodgson,  the  manager — 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  letters. 

The  pale-faced  gentleman  responded  for  me. 

"Fire  away,"  said  Mr.  Hodgson. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  of  me  wearily  the  melancholy  gen- 
tleman at  the  piano. 

"  'Sally  in  Our  Alley,'  "  I  replied. 

"What  are  you?"  interrupted  Mr.  Hodgson.  He  had 
never  once  looked  at  me,  and  did  not  now. 

"A  tenor,"  I  replied.  "Not  a  full  tenor,"  I  added,  re- 
membering the  O'Kelly's  instructions. 

"Utterly  impossible  to  fill  a  tenor,"  remarked  the  rest- 
less-eyed gentleman,  looking  at  me  and  speaking  to  the 
worried-looking  gentleman.     "Ever  tried?" 

Everybody  laughed,  with  the  exception  of  the  melan- 
choly gentleman  at  the  piano,  Mr.  Hodgson  throwing  in 
his  contribution  without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  letters. 
Throughout  the  proceedings  the  restless-eyed  gentleman 
continued  to  make  humorous  observations  of  this  nature, 
at  which  everybody  laughed,  excepting  always  the  mel- 


274  P^^l  Kelver 

ancholy  pianist — a  short,  sharp,  mechanical  laugh,  devoid 
of  the  least  suggestion  of  amusement.  The  restless-eyed 
gentleman,  it  appeared,  was  the  leading  low  comedian  of 
the  theatre. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  melancholy  gentleman,  and  com- 
menced the  accompaniment. 

"Tell  me  when  he's  going  to  begin,"  remarked  Mr. 
Hodgson  at  the  conclusion  of  the  first  verse. 

"He  has  a  fair  voice,"  said  my  accompanist.  "He's  evi- 
dently nervous." 

"There  is  a  prejudice  throughout  theatrical  audiences," 
observed  Mr.  Hodgson,  "in  favour  of  a  voice  they  can 
hear.     That  is  all  I  am  trying  to  impress  upon  him." 

The  second  verse,  so  I  imagined,  I  sang  in  the  voice  of 
a  trumpet.  The  burly  gentleman — the  translator  of  the 
French  libretto,  as  he  turned  out  to  be ;  the  author  of  the 
English  version,  as  he  preferred  to  be  called — acknowl- 
edged to  having  distinctly  detected  a  sound.  The  rest- 
less-eyed comedian  suggested  an  announcement  from  the 
stage  requesting  strict  silence  during  my  part  of  the  per- 
formance. 

The  sickness  of  fear  was  stealing  over  me.  My  voice, 
so  it  seemed  to  me,  disappointed  at  the  effect  it  had  pro- 
duced, had  retired,  sulky,  into  my  boots,  whence  it  re- 
fused to  emerge. 

"Your  voice  is  all  right — very  good,"  whispered  the 
musical  conductor.  "They  want  to  hear  the  best  you  can 
do,  that's  all." 

At  this  my  voice  ran  up  my  legs  and  out  of  my  mouth. 

"Thirty  shillings  a  week,  half  salary  for  rehearsals.  If 
that's  all  right,  Mr.  Catchpole  will  give  you  your  agree- 
ment. If  not,  very  much  obliged.  Good  morning,"  said 
Mr.  Hodgson,  still  absorbed  in  his  correspondence. 

With  the  pale-faced  young  man  I  retired  to  a  desk  in 
the  corner,  where  a  few  seconds  sufficed  for  the  comple- 
tion of  the  business.  Leaving,  I  sought  to  catch  the  eye 
of  my  melancholy  friend,  but  he  appeared  too  sunk  in 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  275 

dejection  to  notice  anything.  The  restless-eyed  comedian, 
looking  at  the  author  of  the  English  version  and  address- 
ing me  as  Boanerges,  wished  me  good  morning,  at  which 
the  everybody  laughed;  and,  informed  as  to  the  way  out 
by  the  pale-faced  Mr.  Catchpole,  I  left. 

The  first  "call"  was  for  the  following  Monday  at  two 
o'clock.  I  found  the  theatre  full  of  life  and  bustle.  The 
principals,  who  had  just  finished  their  own  rehearsal,  were 
talking  together  in  a  group.  We  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  chorus  filled  the  centre  of  the  stage.  I  noticed  the 
lady  I  had  heard  referred  to  as  Gertie;  as  also  the  thin 
lady  with  the  golden  hair.  The  massive  gentleman  and 
the  fishy-eyed  young  man  were  again  in  close  proximity ; 
so  long  as  I  knew  them  they  always  were  together,  pos- 
sessed, apparently,  of  a  sympathetic  antipathy  for  each 
other.  The  fishy-eyed  young  gentleman  was  explaining 
the  age  at  which  he  thought  decayed  chorus  singers  ought, 
in  justice  to  themselves  and  the  public,  to  retire  from  the 
profession;  the  massive  gentleman,  the  age  and  size  at 
which  he  thought  parcels  of  boys  ought  to  be  learning 
manners  across  their  mother's  knee. 

Mr.  Hodgson,  still  reading  letters  exactly  as  I  had  left 
him  four  days  ago,  stood  close  to  the  footlights.  My 
friend,  the  musical  director,  armed  with  a  violin  and  sup- 
ported by  about  a  dozen  other  musicians,  occupied  the  or- 
chestra. The  adapter  and  the  stage  manager — a  French- 
man whom  I  found  it  good  policy  to  mistake  for  a  born 
Englishman — sat  deep  in  confabulation  at  a  small  table 
underneath  a  temporary  gas  jet.  Quarter  of  an  hour  or 
so  passed  by,  and  then  the  stage  manager,  becoming  sud- 
denly in  a  hurry,  rang  a  small  bell  furiously. 

"Clear,  please ;  all  clear,"  shouted  a  small  boy,  with  im- 
portant air  suggestive  of  a  fox  terrier ;  and,  following  the 
others,  I  retreated  to  the  wings. 

The  comedian  and  the  leading  lady — whom  I  knew  well 
from  the  front,  but  whom  I  should  never  have  recognised 
— severed  themselves  from  their  companions  and  joined 


276  Paul  Kelver 

Mr.  Hodgson  by  the  footlights.  As  a  preliminary  we 
were  sorted  out,  according  to  our  sizes,  into  loving  cou- 
ples. 

"Ah,"  said  the  stage  manager,  casting  an  admiring  gaze 
upon  the  fishy-eyed  young  man,  whose  height  might  have 
been  a  little  over  five  feet  two,  ''I  have  the  very  girl  for 
you — a  beauty !"  Darting  into  the  group  of  ladies,  he  re- 
turned with  quite  the  biggest  specimen,  a  lady  of  mag- 
nificent proportions,  whom,  with  the  air  of  the  virtuous 
uncle  of  melodrama,  he  bestowed  upon  the  fishy-eyed 
young  man.  To  the  massive  gentleman  was  given  a 
sharp-faced  little  lady,  who  at  a  distance  appeared  quite 
girlish.  Myself  I  found  mated  to  the  thin  lady  with  the 
golden  hair. 

At  last  complete,  we  took  our  places  in  the  then  ap- 
proved semi-circle,  and  the  attenuated  orchestra  struck  up 
the  opening  chorus.  My  music,  which  had  been  sent  me 
by  post,  I  had  gone  over  with  the  O'Kelly,  and  about  that 
I  felt  confident ;  but  for  the  rest,  ill  at  ease. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  thin  lady,  *T  must  ask  you  to 
put  your  arm  round  my  waist.  It's  very  shocking,  I 
know,  but,  you  see,  our  salary  depends  upon  it.  Do  you 
think  you  could  manage  it?" 

I  glanced  into  her  face.  A  whimsical  expression  of 
fun  replied  to  me  and  drove  away  my  shyness.  I  carried 
out  her  instructions  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 

The  indefatigable  stage  manager  ran  in  and  out  among 
us  while  we  sang,  driving  this  couple  back  a  foot  or  so, 
this  other  forward,  herding  this  group  closer  together, 
throughout  another  making  space,  suggesting  the  idea 
of  a  sheep-dog  at  work. 

"Very  good,  very  good  indeed,"  commented  Mr.  Hodg- 
son at  the  conclusion.  "We  will  go  over  it  once  more, 
and  this  time  in  tune." 

"And  we  will  make  love,"  added  the  stage  manager; 
"not  like  marionettes,  but  like  ladies  and  gentlemen  all 
alive."     Seizing  the  lady  nearest  to  him,  he  explained  to 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  277 

us  by  object  lesson  how  the  real  peasant  invariably  be- 
haves when  under  influence  of  the  grand  passion,  stand- 
ing gracefully  with  hands  clasped  upon  heart,  head  in- 
clined at  an  angle  of  forty-five,  his  whole  countenance 
eloquent  with  tender  adoration. 

"If  he  expects,"  remarked  the  massive  gentleman  sotto 
voce  to  an  experienced-looking  young  lady,  "a  perform- 
ance of  Romeo  thrown  in,  I,  for  one,  shall  want  an  extra 
ten  shillings  a  week." 

Casting  the  lady  aside  and  seizing  upon  a  gentleman, 
our  stage  manager  then  proceeded  to  show  the  ladies  how 
a  village  maiden  should  receive  affectionate  advances :  one 
shoulder  a  trifle  higher  than  the  other,  body  from  the 
waist  upward  gently  waggling,  roguish  expression  in  left 
eye. 

"Ah,  he's  a  bit  new  to  it,"  replied  the  experienced  young 
lady.     "He'll  get  over  all  that." 

Again  we  started.  Whether  others  attempted  to  fol- 
low the  stage  manager's  directions  I  cannot  say,  my  whole 
attention  being  centred  upon  the  fishy-eyed  young  man, 
who  did,  implicitly.  Soon  it  became  apparent  that  the 
whole  of  us  were  watching  the  fishy-eyed  young  man  to 
the  utter  neglect  of  our  own  business.  Mr.  Hodgson 
even  looked  up  from  his  letters;  the  orchestra  was  play- 
ing out  of  time ;  the  author  of  the  English  version  and  the 
leading  lady  exchanged  glances.  Three  people  only  ap- 
peared not  to  be  enjoying  themselves :  the  chief  comedian, 
the  stage  manager  and  the  fishy-eyed  young  gentleman 
himself,  who  pursued  his  labours  methodically  and  con- 
scientiously. There  was  a  whispered  confabulation  be- 
tween the  leading  low  comedian,  Mr.  Hodgson  and  the 
stage  manager.  As  a  result,  the  music  ceased  and  the 
fishy-eyed  young  gentleman  was  requested  to  explain 
what  he  was  doing. 

"Only  making  love,"  replied  the  fishy-eyed  young  gen- 
tleman. 


2/8  Paul  Kelver 

"You  were  playing  the  fool,  sir,"  retorted  the  leading 
low  comedian,  severely. 

"That  is  a  very  unkind  remark,"  replied  the  fishy-eyed 
young  gentleman,  evidently  hurt,  "to  make  to  a  gentle- 
man who  is  doing  his  best." 

Mr.  Hodgson  behind  his  letters  was  laughing.  "Poor 
fellow,"  he  murmured;  "I  suppose  he  can't  help  it.  Go 
on." 

"We  are  not  producing  a  pantomime,  you  know,"  urged 
our  comedian. 

"I  want  to  give  him  a  chance,  poor  devil,"  explained 
Mr.  Hodgson  in  a  lower  voice.  "Only  support  of  a  wid- 
owed mother." 

Our  comedian  appeared  inclined  to  argue;  but  at  this 
point  Mr.  Hodgson's  correspondence  became  absorbing. 

For  the  chorus  the  second  act  was  a  busy  one.  We 
opened  as  soldiers  and  vivandieres,  every  warrior  in  this 
way  possessing  his  own  private  travelling  bar.  Our  stage 
manager  again  explained  to  us  by  example  how  a  sol- 
dier behaves,  first  under  stress  of  patriotic  emotion,  and 
secondly  under  stress  of  cheap  cognac,  the  difference  be- 
ing somewhat  subtle :  patriotism  displaying  itself  by  slaps 
upon  the  chest,  and  cheap  cognac  by  slaps  upon  the  fore- 
head. A  little  later  we  were  conspirators ;  our  stage  man- 
ager, with  the  help  of  a  tablecloth,  showed  us  how  to 
conspire.  Next  we  were  a  mob,  led  by  the  sentimental 
baritone ;  our  stage  manager,  ruffling  his  hair,  expounded 
to  us  how  a  mob  led  by  a  sentimental  baritone  would  nat- 
urally behave  itself.  The  act  wound  up  with  a  fight. 
Our  stage  manager,  minus  his  coat,  demonstrated  to  us 
how  to  fight  and  die,  the  dying  being  a  painful  and  dusty 
performance,  necessitating,  as  it  did,  much  rolling  about 
on  the  stage.  The  fishy-eyed  young  gentleman  through- 
out the  whole  of  it  was  again  the  centre  of  attraction. 
Whether  he  were  solemnly  slapping  his  chest  and  sing- 
ing about  glory,  or  solemnly  patting  his  head  and  singing 
about  grapes,  was  immaterial :  he  was  the  soldier  for  us. 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  279 

What  the  plot  was  about  did  not  matter,  so  long  as  he 
was  in  it.  Who  led  the  mob  one  did  not  care;  one's  de- 
sire was  to  see  him  lead.  How  others  fought  and  died 
was  matter  of  no  moment;  to  see  him  slaughtered  was 
sufficient.  Whether  his  unconsciousness  was  assumed  or 
natural  I  cannot  say ;  in  either  case  it  was  admirable.  An 
earnest  young  man,  over-anxious,  if  anything,  to  do  his 
duty  by  his  employers,  was  the  extent  of  the  charge  that 
could  be  brought  against  him.  Our  chief  comedian 
frowned  and  fumed;  our  stage  manager  was  in  despair. 
Mr.  Hodgson  and  the  author  of  the  English  version,  on 
the  contrary,  appeared  kindly  disposed  towards  the  gen- 
tleman. In  addition  to  the  widowed  mother,  Mr.  Hodgson 
had  invented  for  him  five  younger  brothers  r»nd  sisters 
utterly  destitute  but  for  his  earnings.  To  deprive  so  ex- 
emplary a  son  and  brother  of  the  means  of  earning  a  live- 
lihood for  dear  ones  dependent  upon  him  was  not  in  Mr. 
Hodgson's  heart.  Our  chief  comedian  dissociated  him- 
self from  all  uncharitable  feelings — would  subscribe  to- 
wards the  subsistence  of  the  young  man  out  of  his  own 
pocket,  his  only  concern  being  the  success  of  the  opera. 
The  author  of  the  English  version  was  convinced  the 
young  man  would  not  accept  a  charity;  had  known  him 
for  years — was  a  most  sensitive  creature. 

The  rehearsal  proceeded.  In  the  last  act  it  became  nec- 
essary for  me  to  kiss  the  thin  lady. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the  thin  lady,  "but  duty  is  duty. 
It  has  to  be  done." 

Again  I  followed  directions.  The  thin  lady  was  good 
enough  to  congratulate  me  on  my  performance. 

The  last  three  or  four  rehearsals  we  performed  in  com- 
pany with  the  principals.  Divided  counsels  rendered  them 
decidedly  harassing.  Our  chief  comedian  had  his  views, 
and  they  were  decided ;  the  leading  lady  had  hers,  and  was 
generous  with  them.  The  author  of  the  English  version 
possessed  his  also,  but  of  these  nobody  took  much  notice. 
Once  every  twenty  minutes  the  stage  manager  washed  his 


28o  Paul  Kelver 

hands  of  the  whole  affair  and  left  the  theatre  in  despair, 
and  anybody's  hat  that  happened  to  be  handy,  to  return 
a  few  minutes  later  full  of  renewed  hope.  The  senti- 
mental baritone  was  sarcastic,  the  tenor  distinctly  rude  to 
everybody.  Mr.  Hodgson's  method  was  to  agree  with  all 
and  listen  to  none.  The  smaller  fry  of  the  company,  to- 
gether with  the  more  pushing  of  the  chorus,  supported 
each  in  turn,  when  the  others  were  not  looking.  Up 
to  the  dress  rehearsal  it  was  anybody's  opera. 

About  one  thing,  and  about  one  thing,  only,  had  the 
principals  fallen  into  perfect  agreement,  and  that  was 
that  the  fishy-eyed  young  gentleman  was  out  of  place  in  a 
romantic  opera.  The  tenor  would  be  making  impassioned 
love  to  the  leading  lady.  Perception  would  come  to  both 
of  them  that,  though  they  might  be  occupying  geograph- 
ically the  centre  of  the  stage,  dramatically  they  were  not. 
Without  a  shred  of  evidence,  yet  with  perfect  justice,  they 
would  unhesitatingly  blame  for  this  the  fishy-eyed  young 
man. 

"I  wasn't  doing  anything,"  he  would  explain  meekly. 
'T  was  only  looking."  It  was  perfectly  true ;  that  was  all 
he  was  doing. 

"Then  don't  look,"  would  comment  the  tenor. 

The  fishy-eyed  young  gentleman  obediently  would  turn 
his  face  away  from  them ;  and  in  some  mysterious  manner 
the  situation  would  thereupon  become  even  yet  more  hope- 
lessly ridiculous. 

"My  scene,  I  think,  sir !"  would  thunder  our  chief  come- 
dian, a  little  later  on. 

"I  am  only  doing  what  I  was  told  to  do,"  answered  the 
fishy-eyed  young  gentleman;  and  nobody  could  say  that 
he  was  not. 

"Take  a  circus,  and  run  him  as  a  side-show,"  counselled 
our  comedian. 

"I  am  afraid  he  would  never  be  any  good  as  a 
side-show,"  replied  Mr.  Hodgson,  who  was  reading 
letters. 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  281 

On  the  first  night,  passing  the  gallery  entrance  on  my 
way  to  the  stage  door,  the  sight  of  the  huge  crowd  as- 
sembled there  waiting  gave  me  my  first  taste  of  artistic 
joy.  I  was  a  part  of  what  they  had  come  to  see,  to  praise 
or  to  condemn,  to  listen  to,  to  watch.  Within  the  theatre 
there  was  an  atmosphere  of  suppressed  excitement, 
amounting  almost  to  hysteria.  The  bird-like  gentleman 
in  his  glass  cage  was  fluttering,  agitated.  The  hands  of 
the  stage  carpenters  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the 
scenery  were  trembling,  their  voices  passionate  with  anx- 
iety; the  fox-terrier-like  call-boy  was  pale  with  sense  of 
responsibility. 

I  made  my  way  to  the  dressing-room — a  long,  low, 
wooden  corridor,  furnished  from  end  to  end  with  a  wide 
shelf  that  served  as  common  dressing-table,  lighted  by  a 
dozen  flaring  gas-jets,  wire-shielded.  Here  awaited  us 
gentlemen  of  the  chorus  the  wigmaker's  assistant,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  make  us  up.  From  one  to  another  he  ran, 
armed  with  his  hare's  foot,  his  box  of  paints  and  his  bun- 
dle of  crepe  hair.  My  turn  arriving,  he  seized  me  by  the 
head,  jabbed  a  wig  upon  me,  and  in  less  than  a  couple  of 
minutes  I  left  his  hands  the  orthodox  peasant  of  the 
stage,  white  of  forehead  and  pink  of  cheek,  with  curly 
moustache  and  lips  of  coral.  Glancing  into  the  glass,  I 
could  not  help  feeling  pleased  with  myself;  a  moustache, 
without  doubt,  suited  me. 

The  chorus  ladies,  when  I  met  them  on  the  stage,  were  a 
revelation  to  me.  Paint  and  powder  though  I  knew  their 
appearance  to  consist  of  chiefly,  yet  in  that  hot  atmosphere 
of  the  theatre,  under  that  artificial  glare,  it  seemed  fit  and 
fascinating.  The  close  approximation  to  so  much  bare 
flesh,  its  curious,  subtle  odour  was  almost  intoxicating. 
Dr.  Johnson's  excuse  to  Garrick  for  the  rarity  of  his  vis- 
its to  the  theatre  recurred  to  me  with  understanding. 

''How  do  you  Hke  my  costume?"  asked  the  thin  lady 
with  the  golden  hair. 

"I  think  you — "     We  were  standing  apart  behind  a 


282  Paul  Kelver 

piece  of  projecting  scenery.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  my 
mouth,  laughing. 

"How  old  are  you  ?"  she  asked  me. 

"Isn't  that  a  rude  question  ?"  I  answered.  "I  don't  ask 
your  age." 

"Mine,"  she  replied,  "entitles  me  to  talk  to  you  as  I 
should  to  a  boy  of  my  own — I  had  one  once.  Get  out  of 
this  life  if  you  can.  It's  bad  for  a  woman ;  it's  worse  still 
for  a  man.     To  you  especially  it  will  be  harmful." 

"Why  to  me  in  particular?" 

"Because  you  are  an  exceedingly  fooHsh  little  boy,"  she 
answered,  with  another  laugh,  "and  are  rather  nice." 

She  slipped  away  and  joined  the  others.  The  chorus  was 
now  entirely  assembled  on  the  stage.  The  sound  of  the 
rapidly-filling  house  reached  us,  softened  through  the  thick 
baize  curtain,  a  dull,  continuous  droning,  as  of  water 
pouring  into  some  huge  cistern.  Suddenly  there  fell  upon 
our  ears  a  startling  crash;  the  overture  had  commenced. 
The  stage  manager — more  suggestive  of  a  sheep-dog  than 
ever,  but  lacking  the  calm  dignity,  the  self-possession 
born  of  conscious  capability  distinctive  of  his  prototype; 
a  fussy,  argumentative  sheep-dog — rushed  into  the  midst 
of  us  and  worried  us  into  our  positions,  where  the  more 
experienced  continued  to  converse  in  whispers,  the  rest 
of  us  waiting  nervously,  trying  to  remember  our  words. 
The  chorus  master,  taking  his  stand  with  his  back  to  the 
proscenium,  held  his  white-gloved  hand  in  readiness.  The 
curtain  rushed  up,  the  house,  a  nightmare  of  white  faces, 
appearing  to  run  towards  us.  The  chorus-master's  white- 
gloved  hand  flung  upward.  A  roar  of  voices  struck 
upon  my  ear,  but  whether  my  own  were  of  them  I  could 
not  say ;  if  I  were  singing  at  all  it  was  unconsciously,  me- 
chanically. Later,  I  found  myself  standing  in  the  wings 
beside  the  thin  lady;  the  stage  was  in  the  occupation  of 
the  principals.  On  my  next  entrance  my  senses  were 
more  with  me;  I  was  able  to  look  about  me.  Here  and 
there  a  strongly-marked  face  among  the  audience  stood 


Leads  to  a  Meeting  283 

out,  but  the  majority  were  as  indistinguishable  as  so 
many  blades  of  grass.  Looked  at  from  the  stage,  the 
house  seemed  no  more  real  than  from  the  front  do  the 
painted  faces  upon  a  black  cloth. 

The  curtain  fell  amid  the  usual  applause,  sounding  to 
us  behind  it  like  the  rattle  of  tiny  stones  against  a  win- 
dow-pane. Three  times  it  rose  and  fell,  like  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  a  door ;  and  then  followed  a  scamper  for 
the  dressing-rooms,  the  long  corridors  being  filled  with 
the  rustling  of  skirts  and  the  scurrying  of  feet. 

It  was  in  the  second  act  that  the  fishy-eyed  young  gen- 
tleman came  into  his  own.  The  chorus  had  lingered  till 
it  was  quite  apparent  that  the  tenor  and  the  leading  lady 
were  in  love  with  each  other;  then,  with  the  exquisite 
delicacy  so  characteristic  of  a  chorus,  foreseeing  that  its 
further  presence  might  be  embarrassing,  it  turned  to  go, 
half  to  the  east,  the  other  half  to  the  west.  The  fishy- 
eyed  young  man,  starting  from  the  centre,  was  the  last 
to  leave  the  stage.  In  another  moment  he  would  have 
disappeared  from  view.  There  came  a  voice  from  the 
gallery,  clear,  distinct,  pathetic  with  entreaty: 

''Don't  go.    Get  behind  a  tree." 

The  request  was  instantly  seconded  by  a  roar  of  ap- 
plause from  every  part  of  the  house,  followed  by  laugh- 
ter. From  that  point  onward  the  house  was  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  the  fortunes  of  the  fishy-eyed  young  gentle- 
man. At  his  next  entrance,  disguised  as  a  conspirator, 
he  was  welcomed  with  enthusiasm,  his  passing  away  re- 
gretted loudly.  At  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  the  tenor, 
furious,  rushed  up  to  him,  and,  shaking  a  fist  in  his  face, 
demanded  what  he  meant  by  it. 

"I  wasn't  doing  anything,"  explained  the  fishy-eyed 
young  man. 

"You  went  off  sideways !"  roared  the  tenor. 

"Well,  you  told  me  not  to  look  at  you,"  explained 
meekly  the  fishy-eyed  young  gentleman.  "I  must  go  off 
somehow.    I  regard  you  as  a  very  difficult  man  to  please." 


284  Paul  Kelver 

At  the  final  fall  of  the  curtain  the  house  appeared  di- 
vided as  regarded  the  merits  of  the  opera ;  but  for  ''Gog- 
gles" there  was  a  unanimous  and  enthusiastic  call,  and 
the  while  we  were  dressing  a  message  came  for  ''Gog- 
gles" that  Mr.  Hodgson  wished  to  see  him  in  his  private 
room. 

"He  can  make  a  funny  face,  no  doubt  about  it,"  com- 
mented one  gentleman,  as  "Goggles"  left  the  room. 

"I  defy  him  to  make  a  funnier  one  than  God  Almighty's 
made  for  him,"  responded  the  massive  gentleman. 

"There's  a  deal  in  luck,"  observed,  with  a  sigh,  another, 
a  tall,  handsome  young  gentleman  possessed  of  a  rich  bass 
voice. 

Leaving  the  stage  door,  I  encountered  a  group  of  gen- 
tlemen waiting  upon  the  pavement  outside.  Not  inter- 
ested in  them  myself,  I  was  hurrying  past,  when  one  laid 
a  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  I  turned.  He  was  a  big, 
broad-shouldered  fellow,  with  a  dark  Vandyke  beard  and 
soft,  dreamy  eyes. 

"Dan!"  I  cried. 

"I  thought  it  was  you,  young  'un,  in  the  first  act,"  he 
answered.  "In  the  second,  when  you  came  on  without  a 
moustache,  I  knew  it.     Are  you  in  a  hurry  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  answered.     "Are  you  ?" 

"No,"  he  replied ;  "we  don't  go  to  press  till  Thursday, 
so  I  can  write  my  notice  to-morrow.  Come  and  have  sup- 
per with  me  at  the  Albion  and  we  will  talk.  You  look 
tired,  young  'un," 

"No,"  I  assured  him,  "only  excited — partly  at  meeting 
you." 

He  laughed,  and  drew  my  arm  through  his. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HOW  ON  A  SWEET  GREY  MORNING  THE  FUTURE  CAME  TO 

PAUL. 

Over  our  supper  Dan  and  I  exchanged  histories.  They 
revealed  points  of  similarity.  Leaving  school  some  con- 
siderable time  earlier  than  myself,  Dan  had  gone  to  Cam- 
bridge ;  but  two  years  later,  in  consequence  of  the  death 
of  his  father,  of  a  wound  contracted  in  the  Indian  Mutiny 
and  never  cured,  had  been  compelled  to  bring  his  college 
career  to  an  untimely  termination. 

''You  might  not  have  expected  that  to  grieve  me,"  said 
Dan,  with  a  smile,  "but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  severe 
blow  to  me.  At  Cambridge  I  discovered  that  I  was  by 
temperament  a  scholar.  The  reason  why  at  school  I  took 
no  interest  in  learning  was  because  learning  was,  of  set 
purpose,  made  as  uninteresting  as  possible.  Like  a  Cook's 
tourist  party  through  a  picture  gallery,  we  were  rushed 
through  education ;  the  object  being  not  that  we  should 
see  and  understand,  but  that  we  should  be  able  to  say  that 
we  had  done  it.  At  college  I  chose  my  own  subjects, 
studied  them  in  my  own  way.  I  fed  on  knowledge,  was 
not  stuffed  with  it  like  a  Strassburg  goose." 

Returning  to  London,  he  had  taken  a  situation  in  a  bank, 
the  chairman  of  which  had  been  an  old  friend  of  his 
father.  The  advantage  was  that  while  earning  a  small 
income  he  had  time  to  continue  his  studies ;  but  the  deadly 
monotony  of  the  work  had  appalled  him,  and  upon  the 
death  of  his  mother  he  had  shaken  the  cloying  dust  of  the 
City  from  his  brain  and  joined  a  small  "fit-up"  theatrical 
company.  On  the  stage  he  had  remained  for  another 
eighteen  months:  had  played  all  roles,  from  "Romeo"  to 
"Paul  Pry,"  had  helped  to  paint  the  scenery,  had  assisted 


286  Paul  Kelver 

in  the  bill-posting.  The  latter,  so  he  told  me,  he  had 
found  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  accomplishments,  the 
paste-laden  poster  having  an  innate  tendency  to  recoil 
upon  the  amateur's  own  head,  and  to  stick  there.  Weary- 
ing of  the  stage  proper,  he  had  joined  a  circus  company, 
had  been  "Signor  Ricardo,  the  daring  bare-back  rider," 
also  one  of  the  "Brothers  Roscius  in  their  marvellous 
trapeze  act;"  inclining  again  towards  respectability,  had 
been  a  waiter  for  three  months  at  Ostend;  from  that,  a 
footman. 

"One  never  knows,"  remarked  Dan.  "I  may  come  to  be 
a  society  novelist;  if  so,  inside  knowledge  of  the  aris- 
tocracy will  give  me  decided  advantage  over  the  majority 
of  my  competitors." 

Other  callings  he  had  sampled :  had  tramped  through 
Ireland  with  a  fiddle ;  through  Scotland  with  a  lecture  on 
Palestine,  assisted  by  dissolving  views;  had  been  a 
billiard-marker ;  next  a  schoolmaster.  For  the  last  three 
months  he  had  been  a  journalist,  dramatic  and  musical 
critic  to  a  Sunday  newspaper.  Often  had  I  dreamt  of 
such  a  position  for  myself. 

"How  did  you  obtain  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"The  idea  occurred  to  me,"  replied  Dan,  "late  one  after- 
noon, sauntering  down  the  Strand,  wondering  what  I 
should  do  next.  I  was  on  my  beam  ends,  with  only  a  few 
shillings  in  my  pocket ;  but  luck  has  always  been  with  me. 
I  entered  the  first  newspaper  office  I  came  to,  walked  up- 
stairs to  the  first  floor,  and  opening  the  first  door  without 
knocking,  passed  through  a  small,  empty  room  into  a 
largef  one,  littered  with  books  and  papers.  It  was  grow- 
ing dark.  A  gentleman  of  extremely  youthful  figure  was 
running  round  and  round,  cursing  to  himself  because  of 
three  things :  he  had  upset  the  ink,  could  not  find  the 
matches,  and  had  broken  the  bell-pull.  In  the  gloom,  as- 
suming him  to  be  the  office  boy,  I  thought  it  would  be 
fun  to  mistake  him  for  the  editor.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  turned  out  to  be  the  editor.    I  lit  the  gas  for  him,  and 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul       287 

found  him  another  ink-pot.  He  was  a  slim  young  man 
with  the  voice  and  manner  of  a  schoolboy.  I  don't  sup- 
pose he  is  any  more  than  five  or  six-and-twenty.  He 
owes  his  position  to  the  fact  of  his  aunt's  being  the  pro- 
prietress. He  asked  me  if  he  knew  me.  Before  I  could 
tell  him  that  he  didn't,  he  went  on  talking.  He  appeared 
to  be  labouring  under  a  general  sense  of  injury. 

"  'People  come  into  this  office/  he  said ;  'they  seem  to 
look  upon  it  as  a  shelter  from  the  rain — people  I  don't 
know  from  Adam.  And  that  damned  fool  downstairs  lets 
them  march  straight  up — anybody,  men  with  articles  on 
safety  valves,  people  who  have  merely  come  to  kick  up  a 
row  about  something  or  another.  Half  my  work  I  have 
to  do  on  the  stairs.' 

"I  recommended  to  him  that  he  should  insist  upon 
strangers  writing  their  business  upon  a  slip  of  paper. 
He  thought  it  a  good  idea. 

"  'For  the  last  three-quarters  of  an  hour,'  he  said,  'have 
I  been  trying  to  finish  this  one  column,  and  four  times 
have  I  been  interrupted.' 

"At  that  precise  moment  there  came  another  knock  at 
the  door. 

"  'I  won't  see  him !'  he  cried.  'I  don't  care  who  he  is ; 
I  won't  see  him.  Send  him  away!  Send  everybody 
away !' 

"I  went  to  the  door.  He  was  an  elderly  gentleman. 
He  made  to  sweep  by  me;  but  I  barred  his  way,  and 
closed  the  editorial  door  behind  me.  He  seemed  sur- 
prised ;  but  I  told  him  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  see  the 
editor  that  afternoon,  and  suggested  his  writing  his  busi- 
ness on  a  sheet  of  paper,  which  I  handed  to  him  for  the 
purpose.  I  remained  in  that  ante-room  for  half  an  hour, 
and  during  that  time  I  suppose  I  must  have  sent  away 
about  ten  or  a  dozen  people.  I  don't  think  their  business 
could  have  been  important,  or  I  should  have  heard  about 
it  afterwards.  The  last  to  come  was  a  tired-looking 
gentkman,  smoking  a  cigarette.     I  asked  him  his  name. 


288  Paul  Kelver 

"He  looked  at  me  in  surprise,  and  then  answered, 
^Idiot!' 

"I  remained  firm,  however,  and  refused  to  let  him  pass. 

"  'It's  a  bit  awkward,'  he  retorted.  'Don't  you  think 
you  could  make  an  exception  in  favour  of  the  sub-editor 
on  press  night?' 

"I  replied  that  such  would  be  contrary  to  my  instruc- 
tions. 

"  'Oh,  all  right,'  he  answered.  'I'd  like  to  know  who's 
going  to  the  Royalty  to-night,  that's  all.  It's  seven  o'clock 
already.' 

"An  idea  occurred  to  me.  If  the  sub-editor  of  a  paper 
doesn't  know  whom  to  send  to  a  theatre,  it  must  mean  that 
the  post  of  dramatic  critic  on  that  paper  is  for  some  reason 
or  another  vacant. 

"  'Oh,  that's  all  right,'  I  told  him.  'I  shall  be  in  time 
enough.' 

"He  appeared  neither  pleased  nor  displeased.  'Have 
you  arranged  with  the  Guv'nor?'  he  asked  me. 

"  'I'm  just  waiting  to  see  him  again  for  a  few  minutes,' 
I  returned.     'It'll  be  all  right.     Have  you  got  the  ticket?' 

"  'Haven't  seen  it,'  he  replied. 

"  'About  a  column  ?'  I  suggested. 

"  Three-quarters,'  he  preferred,  and  went. 

"The  moment  he  was  gone,  I  slipped  downstairs  and 
met  a  printer's  boy  coming  up. 

"  'What's  the  name  of  your  sub  ?'  I  asked  him.  *Tall 
man  with  a  black  moustache,  looks  tired.' 

"  'Oh,  you  mean  Penton,'  explained  the  boy. 

"  That's  the  name,'  I  answered ;  'couldn't  think  of  it.' 

"I  walked  straight  into  the  editor ;  he  was  still  irritable. 
'What  is  it?    What  is  it  now?'  he  snapped  out. 

"  'I  only  want  the  ticket  for  the  Royalty  Theatre,'  I 
answered.    'Penton  says  you've  got  it.' 

"  'I  don't  know  where  it  is,'  he  growled. 

"I  found  it  after  some  little  search  upon  his  desk. 

"  'Who's  going?'  he  asked. 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul      289 

"  'I  am,'  I  said.    And  I  went. 

"They  have  never  discovered  to  this  day  that  I  appoint- 
ed myself.  Penton  thinks  I  am  some  relation  of  the  pro- 
prietress, and  in  consequence  everybody  treats  me  with 
marked  respect.  Mrs.  Wallace  herself,  the  proprietress, 
thinks  I  am  the  discovery  of  Penton,  in  whose  judgment 
she  has  great  faith;  and  with  her  I  get  on  admirably. 
The  paper  I  don't  think  is  doing  too  well,  and  the  salary 
is  small,  but  sufficient.  Journalism  suits  my  tempera- 
ment, and  I  dare  say  I  shall  keep  to  it." 

"You've  been  somewhat  of  a  rolling  stone  hitherto,"  I 
commented. 

He  laughed.  "From  the  stone's  point  of  view,"  he 
answered,  "I  never  could  see  the  advantage  of  being 
smothered  in  moss.  I  should  always  prefer  remaining  the 
stone,  unhidden,  able  to  move  and  see  about  me.  But 
now,  to  speak  of  other  matters,  what  are  your  plans  for 
the  immediate  future  ?  Your  opera,  thanks  to  the  gentle- 
men, the  gods  have  dubbed  'Goggles,'  will,  I  fancy,  run 
through  the  winter.    Are  you  getting  any  salary  ?" 

"Thirty  shillings  a  week,"  I  explained  to  him,  "with 
full  salary  for  matinees." 

"Say  two  pounds,"  he  replied.  "With  my  three  we 
could  set  up  an  establishment  of  our  own.  I  have  an  idea 
that  is  original.    Shall  we  work  it  out  together  ?" 

I  assured  him  with  fervour  that  nothing  would  please 
me  better. 

"There  are  four  delightful  rooms  in  Queen's  Square," 
he  continued.  "They  are  charmingly  furnished :  a  fine 
sitting-room  in  the  front,  with  two  bedrooms  and  a 
kitchen  behind.  Their  last  tenant  was  a  Polish  Revolu- 
tionary, who,  three  months  ago,  poor  fellow,  was  foolish 
enough  to  venture  back  to  Russia,  and  who  is  now  living 
rent  free.  The  landlord  of  the  house  is  an  original  old 
fellow,  Deleglise  the  engraver.  He  occupies  the  rest  of 
the  house  himself.  He  has  told  me  I  can  have  the  rooms 
for  anything  I  like  to  offer,  and  I  should  suggest  thirty 


290  Paul  Kelver 

shillings  a  week,  though  under  ordinary  circumstances 
they  would  be  worth  three  or  four  pounds.  But  he  will 
only  let  us  have  them  on  the  understanding  that  we  Mo 
for'  ourselves.  He  is  quite  an  oddity.  He  hates  petti- 
coats, especially  elderly  petticoats.  He  has  one  servant, 
an  old  Frenchwoman,  who,  I  believe,  was  housekeeper  to 
his  mother,  and  he  and  she  do  the  housework  together, 
most  of  their  time  quarrelling  over  it.  Nothing  else  of 
the  genus  domestic  female  will  he  allow  inside  the  door ; 
not  even  an  occasional  charwoman  would  be  permitted  to 
us.  On  the  other  hand^  it  is  a  beautiful  old  Georgian 
house,  with  Adams  mantelpieces,  a  stone  staircase,  and 
oak-panelled  rooms ;  and  our  portion  would  be  the  entire 
second  floor :  no  pianos  and  no  landlady.  He  is  a  widower 
with  one  child,  a  girl  of  about  fourteen  or  maybe  a  little 
older.  Now,  what  do  you  say  ?  I  am  a  very  fair  cook ; 
will  you  be  house-and-parlour-maid  ?" 

I  needed  no  pressing.  A  week  later  we  were  installed 
there,  and  for  nearly  two  years  we  lived  there.  At  the 
risk  of  offending  an  adorable  but  somewhat  touchy  sex, 
convinced  that  man,  left  to  himself,  is  capable  of  little 
more  than  putting  himself  to  bed,  and  that  only  in  a  rough- 
and-ready  fashion,  truth  compels  me  to  record  the  fact  that 
without  female  assistance  or  supervision  of  any  kind  we 
passed  through  those  two  years,  and  yet  exist  to  tell  the 
tale.  Dan  had  not  idly  boasted.  Better  plain  cooking  I 
never  want  to  taste ;  so  good  a  cup  of  coffee,  omelette,  or 
devilled  kidney  I  rarely  have  tasted.  Had  he  always  con- 
fined his  efforts  within  the  boundaries  of  his  abilities,  there 
would  be  little  to  record  beyond  continuous  and  monoto- 
nous success.  But  stirred  into  dangerous  ambition  at  the 
call  of  an  occasional  tea  or  supper  party,  lured  out  of  his 
depths  by  the  example  of  old  Deleglise,  our  landlord — a 
man  who  for  twenty  years  had  made  cooking  his  hobby — 
Dan  would  at  intervals  venture  upon  experiment.  Pastry, 
it  became  evident,  was  a  thing  he  should  never  have 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul      291 

touched :  his  hand  was  heavy  and  his  temperament  too 
serious.  There  was  a  thing  called  lemon  sponge,  necessi- 
tating much  beating  of  eggs.  In  the  cookery-book — a  re- 
markably fat  volume,  luscious  with  illustrations  of  high- 
ly-coloured food — it  appeared  an  airy  and  graceful  struc- 
ture of  dazzling  whiteness.  Served  as  Dan  sent  it  to 
table,  it  suggested  rather  in  form  and  colour  a  miniature 
earthquake.  Spongy  it  undoubtedly  was.  One  forced 
it  apart  with  the  assistance  of  one's  spoon  and  fork ;  it 
yielded  with  a  gentle  tearing  sound.  Another  favourite 
dainty  of  his  was  manna-cake.  Concerning  it  I  would 
merely  remark  that  if  it  in  any  way  resembled  anything 
the  Children  of  Israel  were  compelled  to  eat,  then  there  is 
explanation  for  that  fretfulness  and  discontent  for  which 
they  have  been,  perhaps,  unjustly  blamed — some  excuse 
even  for  their  backward-flung  desires  in  the  direction  of 
the  Egyptian  fleshpots.  Moses  himself  may  have  been 
blessed  with  exceptional  digestion.  It  was  substantial, 
one  must  say  that  for  it.  One  slice  of  it — solid,  firm, 
crusty  on  the  outside,  towards  the  centre  marshy — satis- 
fied most  people  to  a  sense  of  repletion.  For  supper  parties 
Dan  would  essay  trifles — ^by  no  means  open  to  the  criti- 
cism of  being  light  as  air — souffles  that  guests,  in  spite  of 
my  admonishing  kicks,  would  persist  in  alluding  to  as 
pudding ;  and  in  winter-time,  pancakes.  Later,  as  regards 
these  latter,  he  acquired  some  skill ;  but  at  first  the  diffi- 
culty was  the  tossing.  I  think  myself  a  safer  plan  would 
have  been  to  turn  them  by  the  aid  of  a  knife  and  fork; 
it  is  less  showy,  but  more  sure.  At  least,  you  avoid  all 
danger  of  catching  the  half-baked  thing  upon  your  head 
instead  of  in  the  pan,  of  dropping  it  into  the  fire,  or 
among  the  cinders.  But  "Thorough"  was  always  Dan's 
motto ;  and  after  all,  small  particles  of  coal  or  a  few  hairs 
can  always  be  detected  by  the  careful  feeder,  and  re- 
moved. 

A  more  even-tempered  man  than  Dan  for  twenty-three 


292  Paul  Kelver 

hours  out  of  every  twenty-four  surely  never  breathed.  It 
was  a  revelation  to  me  to  discover  that  for  the  other  he 
could  be  uncertain,  irritable,  even  ungrateful.  At  first,  in 
a  spirit  of  pure  good  nature,  I  would  offer  him  counsel 
and  advice ;  explain  to  him  why,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the 
custard  was  pimply,  the  mayonnaise  sauce  suggestive  of 
hair  oil.  What  was  my  return  ?  Sneers,  insult  and  abuse, 
followed,  if  I  did  not  clear  out  quickly,  by  spoilt  tomatoes, 
cold  coffee  grounds — anything  that  happened  to  be  handy. 
Pained,  saddened,  I  would  withdraw,  he  would  kick  the 
door  to  after  me.  His  greatest  enemy  appeared  to  be  the 
oven.  The  oven  it  was  that  set  itself  to  thwart  his  best 
wrought  schemes.  Always  it  was  the  oven's  fault  that  the 
snowy  bun  appeared  to  have  been  made  of  red  sandstone, 
the  macaroni  cheese  of  Cambrian  clay.  One  might  have 
sympathised  with  him  more  had  his  language  been  more 
restrained.  As  it  was,  the  virulence  of  his  reproaches 
almost  inclined  one  to  take  the  part  of  the  oven. 

Concerning  our  house-maid,  I  can  speak  in  terms  of 
unqualified  praise.  There  are,  alas,  fussy  house-maids — 
who  has  not  known  and  suffered  them  ? — who  overdo  the 
thing,  have  no  repose,  no  instinct  telling  them  when  to 
ease  up  and  let  the  place  alone.  I  have  always  held  the 
perpetual  stirring  up  of  dust  a  scientific  error;  left  to 
itself,  it  is  harmless,  may  even  be  regarded  as  a  delicate 
domestic  bloom,  bestowing  a  touch  of  homeliness  upon 
objects  that  without  it  gleam  cold  and  unsympathetic. 
Let  sleeping  dogs  lie.  Why  be  continually  waking  up 
the  stuff,  filling  the  air  with  all  manner  of  unhealthy 
germs?  Nature  in  her  infinite  wisdom  has  ordained  that 
upon  table,  floor,  or  picture  frame  it  shall  sink  and  settle. 
There  it  remains,  quiet  and  inoffensive ;  there  it  will  con- 
tinue to  remain  so  long  as  nobody  interferes  with  it :  why 
worry  it  ?  So  also  with  crumbs,  odd  bits  of  string,  particles 
of  egg-shell,  stumps  of  matches,  ends  of  cigarettes :  what 
fitter  place  for  such  than  under  the  nearest  mat?  To 
sweep  them  up  is  tiresome  work.  They  cling  to  the  carpet. 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul     293 

you  get  cross  with  them,  curse  them  for  their  obstinacy, 
and  feel  ashamed  of  yourself  for  your  childishness.  For 
every  one  you  do  persuade  into  the  dust-pan,  two  jump 
out  again.  You  lose  your  temper,  feel  bitter  towards  the 
man  that  dropped  them.  Your  whole  character  becomes 
deteriorated.  Under  the  mat  they  are  always  willing  to 
go.  Compromise  is  true  statesmanship.  There  will  come 
a  day  when  you  will  be  glad  of  an  excuse  for  not  doing 
something  else  that  you  ought  to  be  doing.  Then  you 
can  take  up  the  mats  and  feel  quite  industrious,  contem- 
plating the  amount  of  work  that  really  must  be  done — 
some  time  or  another. 

To  differentiate  between  the  essential  and  the  non-es- 
sential, that  is  where  woman  fails.  In  the  name  of  com- 
mon sense,  what  is  the  use  of  washing  a  cup  that  half  an 
hour  later  is  going  to  be  made  dirty  again?  If  the  cat 
be  willing  and  able  to  so  clean  a  plate  that  not  one  speck 
of  grease  remain  upon  it,  why  deprive  her  of  pleasure  to 
inflict  toil  upon  yourself  ?  If  a  bed  looks  made  and  feels 
made,  then  for  all  practical  purposes  it  is  made ;  why  up- 
set it  merely  to  put  it  straight  again?  It  would  surprise 
most  women  the  amount  of  labour  that  can  be  avoided  in 
a  house. 

For  needlework,  I  confess,  I  never  acquired  skill.  Dan 
had  learnt  to  handle  a  thimble,  but  my  own  second 
finger  was  ever  reluctant  to  come  forward  when  wanted. 
It  had  to  be  found,  all  other  fingers  removed  out  of  its 
way.  Then,  feebly,  nervously,  it  would  push,  slip,  get 
itself  pricked  badly  with  the  head  of  the  needle,  and,  thor- 
oughly frightened,  remain  incapable  of  further  action. 
More  practical  I  found  it  to  push  the  needle  through  by 
help  of  the  door  or  table. 

The  opera,  as  Dan  had  predicted,  ran  far  into  the  fol- 
lowing year.  When  it  was  done  with,  another — in  which 
"Goggles"  appeared  as  one  of  the  principals — took  its 
place,  and  was  even  more  successful.  After  the  experi- 
ence of  Nelson  Square,  my  present  salary  of  thirty-five 


294  P^^l  Kelver 

shillings,  occasionally  forty  shillings,  a  week  seemed  to 
me  princely.  There  floated  before  my  eyes  the  possibility 
of  my  becoming  a  great  opera  singer.  On  six  hundred 
pounds  a  week^  I  felt  I  could  be  content.  But  the 
O'Kelly  set  himself  to  dispel  this  dream. 

"Ye'd  be  making  a  mistake,  me  boy,"  explained  the 
O'Kelly.  '*Ye'd  be  just  wasting  ye're  time,  i  wouldn't 
tell  ye  so  if  I  weren't  convinced  of  it." 

"I  know  it  is  not  powerful,"  I  admitted. 

"Ye  might  almost  call  it  thin,"  added  the  O'Kelly. 

"It  might  be  good  enough  for  comic  opera,"  I  argued. 
"People  appear  to  succeed  in  comic  opera  without  much 
voice." 

"Sure,  there  ye're  right,"  agreed  the  O'Kelly,  with  a 
sigh.  "An'  of  course  if  ye  had  an  exceptionally  fine  pres- 
ence and  were  strikingly  handsome " 

"One  can  do  a  good  deal  with  make-up,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

The  O'Kelly  shook  his  head.  "It's  never  quite  the  same 
thing.    It  would  depend  upon  your  acting." 

I  dreamt  of  becoming  a  second  Kean,  of  taking  Mac- 
ready's  place.  It  need  not  interfere  with  my  literary  am- 
bition. I  could  combine  the  two :  fill  Drury  Lane  in  the 
evening,  turn  out  epoch-making  novels  in  the  morning, 
write  my  own  plays. 

Every  day  I  studied  in  the  reading-room  of  the  British 
Museum.  Wearying  of  success  in  Art,  I  might  eventu- 
ally go  into  Parliament:  a  Prime  Minister  with  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  history:  why  not?  With  Ollen- 
dorf  for  guide,  I  continued  French  and  German.  It  might 
be  the  diplomatic  service  that  would  appeal  to  me  in  my 
old  age.  An  ambassadorship!  It  would  be  a  pleasant 
termination  to  a  brilliant  career. 

There  was  excuse  for  my  optimistic  mood  about  this 
period.  All  things  were  going  well  with  me.  A  story  of 
mine  had  been  accepted.  I  forget  for  the  moment  the 
name  of  the  journal :  it  is  dead  now.     Most  of  the  papers 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul      295 

in  which  my  early  efforts  appeared  are  dead.  My  contri- 
butions might  be  likened  to  their  swan  songs.  Proofs  had 
been  sent  me,  which  I  had  corrected  and  returned.  But 
proofs  are  not  facts.  This  had  happened  to  me  once  be- 
fore, and  I  had  been  lifted  to  the  skies  only  to  fall  the 
more  heavily.  The  paper  had  collapsed  before  my  story 
had  appeared.  (Ah,  why  had  they  delayed?  It  might 
have  saved  them!)  This  time  I  remembered  the  proverb, 
and  kept  my  own  counsel,  slipping  out  early  each  morning 
on  the  day  of  publication  to  buy  the  paper,  to  scan  eagerly 
its  columns.  For  weeks  I  suffered  hope  deferred.  But 
at  last,  one  bright  winter's  day  in  January,  walking  down 
the  Harrow  Road,  I  found  myself  standing  still,  suddenly 
stunned,  before  a  bill  outside  a  small  newsvendor's  shop. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  my  real  name  in  print: 
**The  Witch  of  Moel  Sarbod :  a  legend  of  Mona,  by  Paul 
Kelver."  (For  this  I  had  even  risked  discovery  by  the 
Lady  'Ortensia.)  My  legs  trembling  under  me,  I  entered 
the  shop.  A  ruffianly-looking  man  in  dirty  shirt-sleeves, 
who  appeared  astonished  that  any  one  should  want  a 
copy,  found  one  at  length  on  the  floor  underneath  the 
counter.  With  it  in  my  pocket,  I  retraced  my  footsteps 
as  in  a  dream.  On  a  seat  in  Paddington  Green  I  sat  down 
and  read  it.  The  hundred  best  books!  I  have  waded 
through  them  all;  they  have  never  charmed  me  as 
charmed  me  that  one  short  story  in  that  now  forgotten 
journal.  Need  I  add  it  was  a  sad  and  sentimental  com- 
position. Dnce  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  mighty  King; 
one — but  with  the  names  I  will  not  bore  you;  they  are 
somewhat  unpronounceable.  Their  selection  had  cost 
me  many  hours  of  study  in  the  British  Museum  reading- 
rooms,  surrounded  by  lexicons  of  the  Welsh  language, 
gazetteers,  translations  from  the  early  Celtic  poets — with 
footnotes.  He  loved  and  was  beloved  by  a  beautiful 
Princess,  whose  name,  being  translated,  was  Purity.  One 
day  the  King,  hunting,  lost  his  way,  and  being  weary, 
lay  down  and  fell  asleep.     And  by  chance  the  spot  where- 


296  Paul  Kelver 

on  he  lay  was  near  to  a  place  which  by  infinite  pains,  with 
the  aid  of  a  magnifying  glass,  I  had  discovered  upon  the 
map,  and  which  means  in  English  the  Cave  of  the  Waters, 
where  dwelt  a  wicked  Sorceress,  who,  while  he  slept,  cast 
her  spells  upon  him,  so  that  he  awoke  to  forget  his  kingly 
honour  and  the  good  of  all  his  people,  his  only  desire 
being  towards  the  Witch  of  Moel  Sarbod. 

Now,  there  lived  in  this  Kingdom  by  the  sea  a  great 
Magician ;  and  Purity,  who  loved  the  King  far  better  than 
herself,  bethought  her  of  him,  and  of  all  she  had  heard 
concerning  his  power  and  wisdom ;  and  went  to  him  and 
besought  his  aid  that  she  might  save  the  King.  There 
was  but  one  way  to  accomplish  this :  with  bare  feet  Purity 
must  climb  the  rocky  path  leading  to  the  Witch's  dwell- 
ing, go  boldly  up  to  her,  not  fearing  her  sharp  claws  nor 
her  strong  teeth,  and  kiss  her  upon  the  mouth.  In  this 
way  the  spirit  of  Purity  would  pass  into  the  Witch's  soul, 
and  she  would  become  a  woman.  But  the  form  and  spirit 
of  the  Witch  would  pass  into  Purity,  transforming  her, 
and  in  the  Cave  of  the  Waters  she  must  forever  abide. 
Thus  Purity  gave  herself  that  the  King  might  live.  With 
bleeding  feet  she  climbed  the  rocky  path,  clasped  the 
Witch's  form  within  her  arms,  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 
And  the  Witch  became  a  woman  and  reigned  with  the 
King  over  his  people,  wisely  and  helpfully.  But  Purity 
became  a  hideous  witch,  and  to  this  day  abides  on  Moel 
Sarbod,  where  is  the  Cave  of  the  Waters.  And  they  who 
climb  the  mountain's  side  still  hear  above  the  roaring 
of  the  cataract  the  sobbing  of  Purity,  the  King's  be- 
trothed. But  many  liken  it  rather  to  a  joyous  song  of 
love  triumphant. 

No  writer  worth  his  salt  was  ever  satisfied  with  any- 
thing he  ever  wrote,  so  I  have  been  told,  and  so  I  try  to 
believe.  Evidently  I  am  not  worth  my  salt.  Candid 
friends,  and  others,  to  whom  in  my  salad  days  I  used  to 
show  my  work,  asking  for  a  frank  opinion,  meaning,  of 
course,  though  never  would  they  understand  me,  their 


How  the  Future  Came  to   Paul     297 

unadulterated  praise,  would  assure  me  for  my  good,  that 
this,  my  first  to  whom  the  gods  gave  life,  was  but  a 
feeble,  ill-shaped  child:  its  attempted  early  English  a 
cross  between  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress''  and  "Old 
Moore's  Almanac;"  its  scenery — which  had  cost  me 
weeks  of  research — ^an  apparent  attempt  to  sum  up  in  the 
language  of  a  local  guide  book  the  leading  characteristics 
of  the  Garden  of  Eden  combined  with  Dante's  Inferno; 
its  pathos  of  the  penny-plain  and  two-penny-coloured  or- 
der. Maybe  they  were  right.  Much  have  I  written  since 
that  at  the  time  appeared  to  me  good,  that  I  have  read 
later  with  regret,  with  burning  cheek,  with  frowning 
brow.  But  of  this,  my  first-born,  the  harbinger  of  all  my 
hopes,  I  am  no  judge.  Touching  the  yellowing,  badly- 
printed  pages,  I  feel  again  the  deep  thrill  of  joy  with 
which  I  first  unfolded  them  and  read.  Again  I  am  a 
youngster,  and  life  opens  out  before  me — inmeasurable, 
no  goal  too  high.  This  child  of  my  brain,  my  work:  it 
shall  spread  my  name  throughout  the  world.  It  shall  be 
a  household  world  in  lands  that  I  shall  never  see.  Friends 
whose  voices  I  shall  never  hear  will  speak  of  me.  I  shall 
die,  but  it  shall  live,  yield  fresh  seed,  bear  fruit  I  know  not 
of.  Generations  yet  unborn  shall  read  it  and  remember 
me.  My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  spirit :  in  it  I  shall  live 
again ;  it  shall  keep  my  memory  green. 

The  long,  long  thoughts  of  boyhood !  We  elders  smile 
at  them.  The  little  world  spins  round ;  the  little  voices  of 
an  hour  sink  hushed.  The  crawling  generations  come  and 
go.  The  solar  system  drops  from  space.  The  eternal 
mechanism  reforms  and  shapes  itself  anew.  Time,  turn- 
ing, ploughs  another  furrow.  So,  growing  sleepy,  we 
murmur  with  a  yawn.  Is  it  that  we  see  clearer,  or  that 
our  eyes  are  growing  dim?  Let  the  young  men  see  their 
visions,  dream  their  dreams,  hug  to  themselves  their 
hopes  of  enduring  fame;  so  shall  they  serve  the  world 
better. 

I  brushed  the  tears  from  my  eyes  and  looked  up.    Half- 


298  Paul  Kelver 

a-dozen  urchins,  male  and  female,  were  gaping  at  me 
open-mouthed.  They  scattered  shouting,  whether  com- 
pliment or  insult  I  know  not :  probably  the  latter.  I  flung 
them  a  handful  of  coppers,  which  for  the  moment  silenced 
them;  and  went  upon  my  way.  How  bright,  how  fair 
the  bustling  streets,  golden  in  the  winter  sunshine, 
thronged  with  life,  with  effort!  Laughter  rang  around 
me.  Sweet  music  rolled  from  barrel-organs.  The  strenu- 
ous voices  of  the  costermongers  called  invitation  to  the 
fruitful  earth.  Errand  boys  passed  me  whistling  shrilly 
joyous  melodies.  Perspiring  tradesmen  shouted  generous 
offers  to  the  needy.  Men  and  women  hurried  by  with 
smiling  faces.  Sleek  cats  purred  in  sheltered  nooks,  till 
merry  dogs  invited  them  to  sport.  The  sparrows,  feast- 
ing in  the  roadway,  chirped  their  hymn  of  praise. 

At  the  Marble  Arch  I  jumped  upon  a  'bus.  I  men- 
tioned to  the  conductor  in  mounting  that  it  was  a  fine  day. 
He  replied  that  he  had  noticed  it  himself.  The  retort 
struck  me  as  a  brilliant  repartee.  Our  coachman,  all  but 
run  into  by  a  hansom  cab  driven  by  a  surly  old  fellow  of 
patriarchal  appearance,  remarked  upon  the  danger  of  al- 
lowing horses  out  in  charge  of  bits  of  boys.  How  full 
the  world  of  wit  and  humour ! 

Almost  without  knowing  it,  I  found  myself  in  earnest 
conversation  with  a  young  man  sitting  next  to  me.  We 
conversed  of  life,  of  love.  Not  until  afterwards,  reflect- 
ing upon  the  matter,  did  it  surprise  me  that  to  a  mere 
chance  acquaintance  of  the  moment  he  had  spoken  of  the 
one  thing  dearest  to  his  heart :  a  sweet  but  clearly  way- 
ward maiden,  the  Hebe  of  a  small,  old-fashioned  coffee- 
shop  the  'bus  was  at  that  moment  passing.  Hitherto  I 
had  not  been  the  recipient  of  confidences.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  as  a  rule  not  even  my  friends  spoke  much  to  me 
concerning  their  own  affairs  ;  generally  it  was  I  who  spoke 
to  them  of  mine.  I  sympathised  with  him,  advised  him 
— how,  I  do  not  recollect.  He  said,  however,  he  thought 
that  I  was  right;  and  at  Regent  Street  he  left  me,  ex- 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul     299 

pressing  his  determination  to  follow  my  counsel,  whatever 
it  may  have  been. 

Between  Berners  Street  and  the  Circus  I  lent  a  shilling 
to  a  couple  of  young  ladies  who  had  just  discovered  with 
amusement,  quickly  swallowed  by  despair,  that  they 
neither  of  them  had  any  money  with  them.  (They  re- 
turned it  next  day  in  postage  stamps,  with  a  charming 
note.)  The  assurance  with  which  I  tendered  the  slight 
service  astonished  me  myself.  At  any  other  time  I  should 
have  hesitated,  argued  with  my  fears,  offered  it  with  an 
appearance  of  sulky  constraint,  and  been  declined.  For  a 
moment  they  were  doubtful,  then,  looking  at  me,  accepted 
with  a  delightful  smile.  They  consulted  me  as  to  the  way 
to  Paternoster  Row.  I  instructed  them,  adding  a  literary 
anecdote,  which  seemed  to  interest  them.  I  even  ventured 
on  a  compliment,  neatly  phrased,  I  am  inclined  to  think. 
Evidently  it  pleased — a  result  hitherto  unusual  in  the  case 
of  my  compliments.  At  the  corner  of  Southampton  Row 
I  parted  from  them  with  regret.  Why  had  I  never 
noticed  before  how  full  of  pleasant  people  this  sweet  and 
smiling  London  ? 

At  the  corner  of  Queen's  Square  a  decent-looking 
woman  stopped  me  to  ask  the  way  to  the  Children's  Hos- 
pital at  Chelsea,  explaining  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
thinking  it  was  the  one  in  Great  Ormond  Street  where  her 
child  lay.  I  directed  her,  then  glancing  into  her  face, 
noticed  how  tired  she  looked,  and  a  vista  of  the  weary 
pavements  she  would  have  to  tramp  flashed  before  me.  I 
slipped  some  money  into  her  hand  and  told  her  to  take  a 
'bus.  She  flushed,  then  thanked  me.  I  turned  a  few 
yards  further  on ;  she  was  starting  after  me,  amazement 
on  her  face.  I  laughed  and  waved  my  hand  to  her.  She 
smiled  back  in  return,  and  went  her  way. 

A  rain  began  to  fall.  I  paused  upon  the  doorstep  for  a 
minute,  enjoying  the  cool  drops  upon  by  upturned  face, 
the  tonic  sharpness  of  the  keen  east  wind;  then  slipped 
my  key  into  the  lock  and  entered. 


300  Paul  Kelver 

The  door  of  old  Deleglise's  studio  on  the  first  floor 
happened  to  be  open.  Hitherto,  beyond  the  usual  formal 
salutations,  when  by  chance  we  met  upon  the  stairs,  I  had 
exchanged  but  few  words  with  my  eccentric  landlord ;  but 
remembering  his  kindly  face,  the  desire  came  upon  me  to 
tell  him  my  good  fortune.  I  felt  sure  his  eyes  would 
lighten  with  delight.  By  instinct  I  knew  him  for  a  young 
man's  man. 

I  tapped  lightly ;  no  answer  came.  Someone  was  talk- 
ing; it  sounded  like  a  girl's  voice.  I  pushed  the  door 
further  open  and  walked  in ;  such  was  the  custom  of  the 
house.  It  was  a  large  room,  built  over  the  yard,  lighted 
by  one  high  window,  before  which  was  the  engraving 
desk,  shaded  under  a  screen  of  tissue  paper.  At  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  room  stood  a  large  cheval-glass,  and  in 
front  of  this,  its  back  towards  me,  was  a  figure  that  ex- 
cited my  curiosity ;  so  that  remaining  where  I  was,  partly 
hidden  behind  a  large  easel,  I  watched  it  for  awhile  in  si- 
lence. Above  a  heavily  flounced  blue  skirt,  which  fell  in 
creases  on  the  floor  and  trailed  a  couple  of  yards  or  so 
behind,  it  wore  a  black  low-cut  sleeveless  bodice — much 
too  big  for  it — of  the  fashion  early  Victorian.  A  good 
deal  of  dark-brown  hair,  fastened  up  by  hair-pins  that 
stuck  out  in  all  directions  like  quills  upon  a  porcupine, 
suggesting  collapse  with  every  movement,  was  orna- 
mented by  three  enormous  green  feathers,  one  of  which 
hung  limply  over  the  lady's  left  ear.  Three  times,  while 
I  watched,  unnoticed,  the  lady  propped  it  into  a  more  be- 
fitting attitude,  and  three  times,  limp  and  intoxicated- 
looking,  it  fell  back  into  its  former  foolish  position.  Her 
long,  thin  arms,  displaying  a  pair  of  brilliantly  red  elbows, 
pointed  to  quite  a  dangerous  degree,  terminated  in  hands 
so  very  sunburnt  as  to  convey  the  impression  of  a  pair  of 
remarkably  well-fitting  gloves.  Her  right  hand  grasped 
and  waved  with  determination  a  large  lace  fan,  her  left 
clutched  fiercely  the  front  of  her  skirt.  With  a  sweeping 
curtsey  to  herself  in  the  glass,  which  would  have  been 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul     301 

more  effective  could  she  have  avoided  tying  her  legs  to- 
gether with  her  skirt — a  contretemps  necessitating  the 
use  of  both  hands  and  a  succession  of  jumps  before  she 
could  disentangle  herself — she  remarked  so  soon  as  she 
had  recovered  her  balance : 

*'So  sorry  I  am  late.  My  carriage  was  unfortunately 
delayed." 

The  excuse,  I  gathered,  was  accepted,  for  with  a 
gracious  smile  and  a  vigorous  bow,  by  help  of  which 
every  hairpin  made  distinct  further  advance  towards  free- 
dom, she  turned,  and  with  much  dignity  and  head  over 
the  right  shoulder  took  a  short  walk  to  the  left.  At  the 
end  of  six  short  steps  she  stopped  and  began  kicking.  For 
what  reason,  I,  at  first,  could  not  comprehend.  It  dawned 
upon  me  after  awhile  that  her  object  was  the  adjustment 
of  her  train.  Finding  the  manoeuvre  too  difficult  of  ac- 
complishment by  feet  alone,  she  stooped,  and,  taking  the 
stuff  up  in  her  hands,  threw  it  behind  her.  Then,  facing 
north,  she  retraced  her  steps  to  the  glass,  talking  to  her- 
self, as  she  walked,  in  the  high-pitched  drawl,  distinctive, 
as  my  stage  knowledge  told  me,  of  aristocratic  society. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so — really  ?  Ah,  yes ;  you  say  that. 
Certainly  not !  I  shouldn't  think  of  it."  There  followed 
what  I  am  inclined  to  believe  was  intended  for  a  laugh, 
musical  but  tantalising.  If  so,  want  of  practice  marred 
the  effort.  The  performance  failed  to  satisfy  even  her- 
self.   She  tried  again ;  it  was  still  only  a  giggle. 

Before  the  glass  she  paused,  and  with  a  haughty  in- 
clination of  her  head  succeeded  for  the  third  time  in  dis- 
placing the  intoxicated  feather. 

"Oh,  bother  the  silly  thing!"  she  said  in  a  voice  so 
natural  as  to  be,  by  contrast  with  her  previous  tone,  quite 
startling. 

She  fixed  it  again  with  difficulty,  muttering  something 
inarticulate.  Then,  her  left  hand  resting  on  an  imaginary 
coat-sleeve,  her  right  holding  her  skirt  sufficiently  high  to 
enable  her  to  move,  she  commenced  to  majestically  gyrate. 


302  Paul  Kelver 

Whether,  hampered  as  she  was  by  excess  of  skirt,  handi- 
capped by  the  natural  clumsiness  of  her  age,  catastrophe 
in  any  case  would  not  sooner  or  later  have  overtaken  her, 
I  have  my  doubts.  I  have  since  learnt  her  own  view  to 
be  that  but  for  catching  sight,  in  turning,  of  my  face,  star- 
ing at  her  through  the  bars  of  the  easel,  all  would  have 
gone  well  and  gracefully.  Avoiding  controversy  on  this 
point,  the  facts  to  be  recorded  are,  that,  seeing  me,  she 
uttered  a  sudden  exclamation  of  surprise,  dropped  her 
skirt,  trod  on  her  train,  felt  her  hair  coming  down,  tried 
to  do  two  things  at  once,  and  sat  upon  the  floor.  I  ran  to 
her  assistance.  With  flaming  face  and  flashing  eyes  she 
sprang  to  her  feet.  There  was  a  sound  as  of  the  rushing 
down  of  avalanches.  The  blue  flounced  skirt  lay  round 
her  on  the  floor.  She  stood  above  its  billowy  folds,  re- 
miniscent of  Venus  rising  from  the  waves — a  gawky,  an- 
gular Venus  in  a  short  serge  frock,  reaching  a  little  below 
her  knees,  black  stockings  and  a  pair  of  prunella  boots  of 
a  size  suggesting  she  had  yet  some  inches  to  grow  before 
reaching  her  full  height. 

**I  hope  you  haven't  hurt  yourself,"  I  said. 

The  next  moment  I  didn't  care  whether  *she  had  or 
whether  she  hadn't.  She  did  not  reply  to  my  kindly  meant 
enquiry.  Instead,  her  hand  swept  through  the  air  in  the 
form  of  an  ample  semi-circle.  It  terminated  on  my  ear. 
It  was  not  a  small  hand ;  it  was  not  a  soft  hand ;  it  was 
not  that  sort  of  hand.  The  sound  of  the  contact  rang 
through  the  room  like  a  pistol  shot;  I  heard  it  with  my 
other  ear.  I  sprang  at  her,  and  catching  her  before  she 
had  recovered  her  equilibrium,  kissed  her.  I  did  not  kiss 
her  because  I  wanted  to.  I  kissed  her  because  I  could 
not  box  her  ears  back  in  return,  which  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred doing.  I  kissed  her,  hoping  it  would  make  her 
mad.  It  did.  If  a  look  could  have  killed  me,  such  would 
have  been  the  tragic  ending  of  this  story.  It  did  not  kill 
me ;  it  did  me  good. 

"You  horrid  boy !"  she  cried.  "You  horrid,  horrid  boy !" 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul     30^ 

There,  I  admit,  she  scored.  I  did  not  in  the  least  ob- 
ject to  her  thinking  me  horrid,  but  at  nineteen  one  does 
object  to  being  mistaken  for  a  boy. 

''I  am  not  a  boy,"  I  explained. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  she  retorted ;  "a  beast  of  a  boy !" 

"If  you  do  it  again,"  I  warned  her — a  sudden  move- 
ment on  her  part  hinting  to  me  the  possibility — "I'll  kiss 
you  again !    I  mean  it." 

"Leave  the  room!"  she  commanded,  pointing  with  her 
angular  arm  towards  the  door. 

I  did  not  wish  to  remain.  I  was  about  to  retire  with 
as  much  dignity  as  circumstances  permitted. 

"Boy !"  she  added. 

At  that  I  turned.  "Now  I  won't  go !"  I  replied,  "See 
if  I  do." 

We  stood  glaring  at  each  other. 

"What  right  have  you  in  here  ?"  she  demanded. 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Deleglise,"  I  answered.  "I  suppose 
you  are  Miss  Deleglise.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  you 
know  how  to  treat  a  visitor." 

"Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Mr.  Horace  Moncrieff,"  I  replied.  I  was  using  at  the 
period  both  my  names  indiscriminately,  but  for  this  occa- 
sion Horace  Moncreiff  I  judged  the  more  awe-inspiring. 

She  snorted.  "I  know.  You're  the  house-maid.  You 
sweep  all  the  crumbs  under  the  mats." 

Now  this  was  a  subject  about  which  at  the  time  I  was 
feeling  somewhat  sore.  "Needs  must  when  the  Devil 
drives ;"  but  as  matters  were,  Dan  and  I  could  well  have 
afforded  domestic  assistance.  It  rankled  in  my  mind  that 
to  fit  in  with  the  foolish  fad  of  old  Deleglise,  I,  the  future 
Dickens,  Thackeray  and  George  Eliot,  Kean,  Macready 
and  Phelps  rolled  into  one,  should  be  compelled  to  the  per- 
formance of  menial  duties.  On  this  morning  of  all  others, 
my  brilliant  literary  career  just  commenced,  the  anomaly 
of  the  thing  appeared  naturally  more  glaring. 

Besides,  how  came  she  to  know  I  swept  the  crumbs 


304  Paul  Kelver 

under  the  mat — ^that  it  was  my  method?  Had  she  and 
Dan  been  discussing  me,  ridiculing  me  behind  my  back? 
What  right  had  Dan  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  our  menage 
to  this  chit  of  a  school-girl  ?  Had  he  done  so  ?  or  had  she 
been  prying,  poking  her  tilted  nose  into  matters  that  did 
not  concern  her  ?  Pity  it  was  she  had  no  mother  to  occa- 
sionally spank  her,  teach  her  proper  behaviour. 

"Where  I  sweep  our  crumbs  is  nothing  to  do  with  you,'' 
I  replied  with  some  spirit.  "That  I  have  to  sweep  them  at 
all  is  the  fault  of  your  father.     A  sensible  girl " 

"How  dare  you  speak  against  my  father!"  she  inter- 
rupted me  with  blazing  eyes. 

"We  will  not  discuss  the  question  further,"  I  answered, 
with  sense  and  dignity. 

"I  think  you  had  better  not !"  she  retorted. 

Turning  her  back  on  me,  she  commenced  to  gather  up 
her  hairpins — there  must  have  been  about  a  hundred  of 
them.  I  assisted  her  to  the  extent  of  picking  up  about 
twenty,  which  I  handed  to  her  with  a  bow :  it  may  have 
been  a  little  stiff,  but  that  was  only  to  be  expected.  I 
wished  to  show  her  that  her  bad  example  had  not  affected 
my  own  manners. 

"I  am  sorry  my  presence  should  have  annoyed  you,"  I 
said.  "It  was  quite  an  accident.  I  entered  the  room 
thinking  your  father  was  here." 

"When  you  saw  he  wasn't,  you  might  have  gone  out 
again,"  she  replied,  "instead  of  hiding  yourself  behind  a 
picture." 

"I  didn't  hide  myself,"  I  explained.  "The  easel  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  way." 

"And  vou  stopped  there  and  watched  me." 

"I  couldn't  help  it." 

She  looked  round  and  our  eyes  met.  They  were  frank, 
grey  eyes.  An  expression  of  merriment  shot  into  them. 
I  laughed. 

Then  she  laughed :  it  was  a  delightful  laugh,  the  laugh 
one  would  have  expected  from  her. 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul      305 

"You  might  at  least  have  coughed,"  she  suggested. 

"It  was  so  amusing,"  I  pleaded. 

"I  suppose  it  was,"  she  agreed,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"Did  I  hurt  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  you  did,"  I  answered,  taking  it. 

"Well,  it  was  enough  to  annoy  me,  wasn't  it?"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Evidently,"  I  agreed. 

"I  am  going  to  a  ball  next  week,"  she  explained,  "a 
grown-up  ball,  and  I've  got  to  wear  a  skirt.  I  wanted  to 
see  if  I  could  manage  a  train." 

"Well,  to  be  candid,  you  can't,"  I  assured  her. 

"It  does  seem  difficult." 

"Shall  I  show  you?"  I  asked. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it  ?" 

"Well,  I  see  it  done  every  night." 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course,  you're  on  the  stage.  Yes, 
do." 

We  readjusted  the  torn  skirt,  accommodating  it  better 
to  her  figure  by  the  help  of  hairpins.  I  showed  her  how 
to  hold  the  train,  and,  I  humming  a  tune,  we  commenced 
to  waltz. 

"I  shouldn't  count  my  steps,"  I  suggested  to  her.  "It 
takes  your  mind  away  from  the  music." 

"I  don't  waltz  well,"  she  admitted  meekly.  "I  know 
I  don't  do  anything  well — except  play  hockey." 

"And  try  not  to  tread  on  your  partner's  feet.  That's  a 
very  bad  fault." 

"I  do  try  not  to,"  she  explained. 

"It  comes  with  practice,"  I  assured  her. 

"I'll  get  Tom  to  give  me  half  an  hour  every  evening," 
she  said.    "He  dances  beautifully." 

"Who's  Tom?" 

"Oh,  father." 

"Why  do  you  call  your  father  Tom  ?  It  doesn't  sound 
respectful." 

"Oh,  he  likes  it ;  and  it  suits  him  so  much  better  than 


3o6  Paul  Kelver 

father.  Besides,  he  isn't  Hke  a  real  father.  He  does 
everything  I  want  him  to." 

*ls  that  good  for  you?" 

"No ;  it's  very  bad  for  me — everybody  says  so.  When 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  of  course  it  isn't  the  way  to  bring 
up  a  girl.  I  tell  him,  but  he  merely  laughs — says  it's  the 
only  way  he  knows.  I  do  hope  I  turn  out  all  right.  Am 
I  doing  it  better  now  ?" 

"A  little.  Don't  be  too  anxious  about  it.  Don't  look 
at  your  feet." 

"But  if  I  don't  they  go  all  wrong.  It  was  you  who  trod 
on  mine  that  time." 

"I  know.    I'm  sorry.    It's  a  little  difficult  not  to." 

"Am  I  holding  my  train  all  right?" 

"Well,  there's  no  need  to  grip  it  as  if  you  were  afraid 
it  would  run  away.  It  will  follow  all  right.  Hold  it 
gracefully." 

"I  wish  I  wasn't  a  girl." 

"Oh,  you'll  get  used  to  it." 

We  concluded  our  dance. 

"What  do  I  do— say  Thank  you'?" 

"Yes,  prettily." 

"What  does /j^  do?" 

"Oh,  he  takes  you  back  to  your  chaperon,  or  suggests 
refreshment,  or  you  sit  and  talk." 

"I  hate  talking.    I  never  know  what  to  say." 

"Oh,  that's  his  duty.  He'll  try  and  amuse  you,  then 
you  must  laugh.    You  have  a  nice  laugh." 

"But  I  never  know  when  to  laugh.  If  I  laugh  when  I 
want  to  it  always  offends  people.  What  do  you  do  if 
somebody  asks  you  to  dance  and  you  don't  want  to  dance 
with  them?" 

"Oh,  vou  say  vour  programme  is  full." 

"But  if  it  isn't?" 

"Well,  you  tell  a  lie." 

"Couldn't  I  say  I  don't  dance  well,  and  that  I'm  sure 
they'd  get  on  better  with  somebody  else?" 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul      307 

•'It  would  be  the  truth,  but  they  might  not  believe  it." 

'*I  hope  nobody  asks  me  that  I  don't  want." 

"Well,  he  won't  a  second  time,  anyhow." 

**You  are  rude." 

*'You  are  only  a  school-girl." 

"I  look  a  woman  in  my  new  frock,  I  really  da." 

"I  should  doubt  it." 

"You  shall  see  me,  then  you'll  be  polite.  It  is  because 
you  are  a  boy  you  are  rude.    Men  are  much  nicer." 

"Oh,  are  they?" 

"Yes.    You  will  be^  when  you  are  a  man." 

The  sound  of  voices  rose  suddenly  in  the  hall. 

"Tom !"  cried  Miss  Deleglise ;  and  collecting  her  skirt 
in  both  hands,  bolted  down  the  corkscrew  staircase  lead- 
ing to  the  kitchen,  leaving  me  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  studio. 

The  door  opened  and  old  Deleglise  entered,  ac- 
companied by  a  small,  slight  man  with  red  hair  and  beard 
and  somewhat  watery  eyes. 

Deleglise  himself  was  a  handsome  old  fellow,  then  a 
man  of  about  fifty-five.  His  massive,  mobile  face,  illumi- 
nated by  bright,  restless  eyes,  was  crowned  with  a  lion-like 
mane  of  iron-grey  hair.  Till  a  few  years  ago  he  had  been 
a  painter  of  considerable  note.  But  in  questions  of  art 
his  temper  was  short.  Pre-Raphaelism  had  gone  out  of 
fashion  for  the  time  being;  the  tendency  of  the  new  age 
was  towards  impressionism,  and  in  disgust  old  Deleglise 
had  broken  his  palette  across  his  knee,  and  swore  never  to 
paint  again.  Artistic  work  of  some  sort  being  necessary 
to  his  temperament,  he  contented  himself  now  with  en- 
graving. At  the  moment  he  was  engaged  upon  the 
reproduction  of  Memlinc's  Shrine  of  St.  Ursula,  with 
photographs  of  which  he  had  just  returned  from 
Bruges. 

At  sight  of  me  his  face  Hghted  with  a  smile,  and  he  ad- 
vanced with  outstretched  hand. 

''Ah,  my  lad,  so  you  have  got  over  your  shyness  and 


3o8  Paul  Kelver 

come  to  visit  the  old  bear  in  his  den.    Good  boy.    I  like 
young  faces." 

He  had  a  clear,  musical  voice,  ever  with  the  suggestion 
of  a  laugh  behind  it.    He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

*'Why,  you  are  looking  as  if  you  had  come  into  a  for- 
time,"  he  added,  "and  didn't  know  what  a  piece  of  bad 
luck  that  can  be  to  a  young  fellow  like  yourself." 

"How  could  it  be  bad  luck  ?"  I  asked,  laughing. 

"Takes  all  the  sauce  out  of  life,  young  man,"  answered 
Deleglise.  "What  interest  is  there  in  running  a  race  with 
the  prize  already  in  your  possession,  tell  me  that  ?" 

"It  is  not  that  kind  of  fortune,"  I  answered,  "it  is  an- 
other. I  have  had  my  first  story  accepted.  It  is  in  print. 
Look." 

I  handed  him  the  paper.  He  spread  it  out  upon  the 
engraving  board  before  him. 

"Ah,  that's  better,"  he  said,  "that's  better.  Charlie," 
he  turned  to  the  red-headed  man^  who  had  seated  himself 
listlessly  in  the  one  easy-chair  the  room  contained,  "come 
here." 

The  red-headed  man  rose  and  wandered  towards  us. 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Paul  Kelver,  our  new 
fellow  servant.  Our  lady  has  accepted  him.  He  has  just 
been  elected ;  his  first  story  is  in  print." 

The  red-haired  man  stretched  out  his  long  thin  hand. 
"I  have  thirty  years  of  fame,"  said  the  red-haired  man — 
"could  I  say  world-wide  ?" 

He  turned  for  confirmation  to  old  Deleglise,  who 
laughed.    "I  think  you  can." 

"If  I  could  give  it  you  would  you  exchange  with  me — 
at  this  moment?" 

"You  would  be  a  fool  if  you  did,"  he  went  on.  "One's 
first  success,  one's  first  victory !  It  is  the  lover's  first  kiss. 
Fortune  grows  old  and  wrinkled,  frowns  more  often  than 
she  smiles.  We  become  indifferent  to  her,  quarrel  with 
her,  make  it  up  again.    But  the  joy  of  her  first  kiss  after 


How  the  Future  Came  to  Paul         309 

the  long  wooing!  Burn  it  into  your  memory,  my  young 
friend,  that  it  may  Hve  with  you  always !" 

He  strolled  away.    Old  Deleglise  took  up  the  parable. 

*'Ah,  yes ;  one's  first  success,  Paul !  Laugh,  my  boy, 
cry !  Shut  yourself  up  in  your  room,  shout,  dance !  Throw 
your  hat  into  the  air  and  cry  hurrah !  Make  the  most  of 
it,  Paul.  Hug  it  to  your  heart,  think  of  it,  dream  of  it. 
This  is  the  finest  hour  of  your  life,  my  boy.  There  will 
never  come  another  like  it — never !" 

He  crossed  the  studio,  and  taking  from  its  nail  a  small 
oil  painting,  brought  it  over  and  laid  it  on  the  board  be- 
side my  paper.  It  was  a  fascinating  little  picture,  painted 
with  that  exquisite  minutiae  and  development  of  detail 
that  a  newer  school  was  then  ridiculing:  as  though  Art 
had  but  one  note  to  her  voice.  The  dead  figure  of  an  old 
man  lay  upon  a  bed.  A  child  had  crept  into  the  darkened 
room,  and  supporting  itself  by  clutching  tightly  at  the 
sheet,  was  gazing  with  solemn  curiosity  upon  the  white, 
still  face. 

''That  was  mine,"  said  old  Deleglise.  "It  was  hung  in 
the  Academy  thirty-six  years  ago,  and  bought  for  ten 
guineas  by  a  dentist  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  He  went  mad 
a  few  years  later  and  died  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  I  had 
never  lost  sight  of  it,  and  the  executors  were  quite  agree- 
able to  my  having  it  back  again  for  the  same  ten  guineas. 
I  used  to  go  every  morning  to  the  Academy  to  look  at  it. 
I  thought  it  the  cleverest  bit  of  work  in  the  whole  gallery, 
and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  it  wasn't.  I  saw  myself  a 
second  Teniers,  another  Millet.  Look  how  that  light 
coming  through  the  open  door  is  treated;  isn't  it  good? 
Somebody  will  pay  a  thousand  guineas  for  it  before  I 
have  been  dead  a  dozen  years,  and  it  is  worth  it.  But  I 
wouldn't  sell  it  myself  now  for  five  thousand.  One's  first 
success ;  it  is  worth  all  the  rest  of  life !" 

"All?"  queried  the  red-haired  man  from  his  easy-chair. 

We  looked  round.    The  lady  of  the  skirt  had  entered, 


3IO  Paul  Kelver 

now  her  own  proper  self:  a  young  girl  of  about  fifteen, 
angular,  awkward-looking,  but  bringing  into  the  room 
with  her  that  atmosphere  of  life,  of  hope,  that  is  the 
eternal  message  of  youth.  She  was  not  beautiful,  not 
then — plain  one  might  almost  have  called  her  but  for  her 
frank,  grey  eyes,  her  mass  of  dark-brown  hair  now 
gathered  into  a  long  thick  plait.  A  light  came  into  old 
Deleglise's  eyes. 

"You  are  right,  not  all,"  he  murmured  to  the  red-haired 
man. 

She  came  forward  shyly.  I  found  it  difficult  to  recog- 
nise in  her  the  flaming  Fury  that  a  few  minutes  before 
had  sprung  at  me  from  the  billows  of  her  torn  blue  skirt. 
She  shook  hands  with  the  red-haired  man  and  kissed  her 
father. 

"My  daughter,"  said  old  Deleglise,  introducing  me  to 
her.    "Mr.  Paul  Kelver,  a  literary  gent." 

"Mr.  Kelver  and  I  have  met  already,"  she  explained. 
"He  has  been  waiting  for  you  here  in  the  studio." 

"And  have  you  been  entertaining  him?"  asked  Deleglise. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  entertained  him,"  she  replied.  Her  voice 
was  singularly  like  her  father's,  with  just  the  same  sug- 
gestion of  ever  a  laugh  behind  it. 

"We  entertained  each  other,"  I  said. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  old  Deleglise.  "Stop  and  lunch 
with  us.    We  will  make  ourselves  a  curry." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OF  THE  GLORY  AND  GOODNESS  AND  THE  EVIL  THAT  GO  TO 
THE  MAKING  OF  LOVE. 

During  my  time  of  struggle  I  had  avoided  all  com- 
munication with  old  Hasluck.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
sympathise  with  feelings  he  did  not  understand.  With 
boisterous  good  humour  he  would  have  insisted  upon  help- 
ing me.  Why  I  preferred  half  starving  with  Lott  and 
Co.  to  selling  my  labour  for  a  fair  wage  to  good-natured 
old  Hasluck,  merely  because  I  knew  him,  I  cannot  ex- 
plain. Though  the  profits  may  not  have  been  so  large, 
Lott  and  Co.'s  dealings  were  not  one  whit  more  honest :  I 
do  not  believe  it  was  that  which  decided  me.  Nor  do  I 
think  it  was  because  he  was  Barbara's  father.  I  never 
connected  him,  nor  that  good  old  soul,  his  vulgar,  homely 
wife,  in  any  way  with  Barbara.  To  me  she  was  a  being 
apart  from  all  the  world.  Her  true  Parents!  I  should 
have  sought  them  rather  amid  the  sacred  groves  of  van- 
ished lands,  within  the  sky-domed  shrines  of  banished 
gods.  There  are  instincts  in  us  not  easily  analysed,  not  to 
be  explained  by  reason.  I  have  always  preferred  the  find- 
ing— sometimes  the  losing — of  my  way  according  to  the 
map,  to  the  surer  and  simpler  method  of  vocal  enquiry; 
working  out  a  complicated  journey,  and  running  the  risk 
of  never  arriving  at  my  destination,  by  aid  of  a  Conti- 
nental Bradshaw,  to  putting  myself  into  the  hands  of 
courteous  officials  maintained  and  paid  to  assist  the  per- 
plexed traveller.  Possibly  a  far-ofif  progenitor  of  mine 
may  have  been  some  morose  "rogue"  savage  with  untribal 
inclinations,  living  in  his  cave  apart,  fashioning  his  own 
stone  hammer,  shaping  his  own  flint  arrow-heads,  shun- 


312  Paul  Kelver 

ning  the  merry  war-dance,  preferring  to  caper  by  him- 
self. 

But  now,  having  gained  my  own  foothold,  I  could 
stretch  out  my  hand  without  fear  of  the  movement  being 
mistaken  for  appeal,  I  wrote  to  old  Hasluck,  and  almost 
by  the  next  post  received  from  him  the  friendliest  of 
notes.  He  told  me  Barbara  had  just  returned  from 
abroad,  took  it  upon  himself  to  add  that  she  also  would  be 
delighted  to  see  me,  and,  as  I  knew  he  would,  threw  his 
doors  open  to  me. 

Of  my  boyish  passion  for  Barbara  never  had  I  spoken 
to  a  living  soul,  nor  do  I  think,  excepting  Barbara 
herself,  had  any  ever  guessed  it.  To  my  mother,  though 
she  was  very  fond  of  her,  Barbara  was  only  a  girl,  with 
charms  but  also  with  faults,  concerning  which  my  mother 
would  speak  freely ;  hurting  me,  as  one  unwittingly  might 
hurt  a  neophyte  by  philosophical  discussion  of  his  newly 
embraced  religion.  Often,  choosing  by  preference  late 
evening  or  the  night,  I  would  wander  round  and  round 
the  huge  red-brick  house  standing  in  its  ancient  garden  on 
the  top  of  Stamford  Hill;  descending  again  into  the 
noisome  streets  as  one  returning  to  the  world  from 
praying  at  a  shrine,  purified,  filled  with  peace,  all 
noble  endeavour,  all  unselfish  aims  seeming  within  my 
grasp.  ^ 

During  Barbara's  four  years'  absence  my  adoration  had 
grown  and  strengthened.  Out  of  my  memory  of  her  my 
desire  had  evolved  its  ideal;  a  being  of  my  imagination, 
but  by  reason  of  that,  to  me  the  more  real,  the  more  pres- 
ent. I  looked  forward  to  seeing  her  again,  but  with  no 
impatience,  revelling  rather  in  the  anticipation  than  eager 
for  the  realisation.  As  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  the 
child  I  had  played  with,  talked  with,  touched,  she  had 
faded  further  and  further  into  the  distance ;  as  the  vision 
of  my  dreams  she  stood  out  clearer  day  by  day.  I  knew 
that  when  next  I  saw  her  there  would  be  a  gulf  between 
us  I  had  no  wish  to  bridge.    To  worship  her  from  afar 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil    3 1 3 

was  a  sweeter  thought  to  me  than  would  have  been  the 
hope  of  a  passionate  embrace.  To  Hve  with  her,  sit  op- 
posite to  her  while  she  ate  and  drank,  see  her,  perhaps, 
with  her  hair  in  curl-papers,  know  possibly  that  she  had  a 
corn  upon  her  foot,  hear  her  speak  maybe  of  a  decayed 
tooth,  or  of  a  chilblain,  would  have  been  torture  to  me. 
Into  such  abyss  of  the  commonplace  there  was  no  fear 
of  my  dragging  her,  and  for  this  I  was  glad.  In  the 
future  she  would  be  yet  more  removed  from  me.  She  was 
older  than  I  was ;  she  must  be  now  a  woman.  Instinctive- 
ly I  felt  that  in  spite  of  years  I  was  not  yet  a  man.  She 
would  marry.  The  thought  gave  me  no  pain,  my  feeling 
for  her  was  utterly  devoid  of  appetite.  No  one  but  my- 
self could  close  the  temple  I  had  built  about  her,  none 
deny  to  me  the  right  of  entry  there.  No  jealous  priest 
could  hide  her  from  my  eyes,  her  altar  I  had  reared  too 
high.  Since  I  have  come  to  know  myself  better,  I  per- 
ceive that  she  stood  to  me  not  as  a  living  woman,  but  as  a 
symbol ;  not  a  fellow  human  being  to  be  walked  with 
through  life,  helping  and  to  be  helped,  but  that  impalpable 
religion  of  sex  to  which  we  raise  up  idols  of  poor  human 
clay,  alas,  not  always  to  our  satisfaction,  so  that  foolishly 
we  fall  into  anger  against  them,  forgetting  they  were  but 
the  work  of  our  own  hands;  not  the  body,  but  the  spirit 
of  love. 

I  allowed  a  week  to  elapse  after  receiving  old  Hasluck's 
letter  before  presenting  myself  at  Stamford  Hill.  It  was 
late  one  afternoon  in  early  summer.  Hasluck  had  not 
returned  from  the  City,  Mrs.  Hasluck  was  out  visiting, 
Miss  Hasluck  was  in  the  garden.  I  told  the  supercilious 
footman  not  to  trouble,  I  would  seek  her  there  myself.  I 
guessed  where  she  would  be;  her  favourite  spot  had  al- 
ways been  a  sunny  corner,  bright  with  flowers,  surround- 
ed by  a  thick  yew  hedge,  cut,  after  the  Dutch  fashion,  into 
quaint  shapes  of  animals  and  birds.  She  was  walking 
there,  as  I  had  expected,  reading  a  book.  And  again,  as 
I  saw  her,  came  back  to  me  the  feeling  that  had  swept 


314  Paul  Kelver 

across  me  as  a  boy,  when  first  outlined  against  the  dusty 
books  and  papers  of  my  father's  office  she  had  flashed 
upon  my  eyes :  that  all  the  fairy  tales  had  suddenly  come 
true,  only  now,  instead  of  the  Princess,  she  was  the 
Queen.  Taller  she  was,  with  a  dignity  that  formerly  had 
been  the  only  charm  she  lacked.  She  did  not  hear  my 
coming,  my  way  being  across  the  soft,  short  grass,  and 
for  a  little  while  I  stood  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  yews, 
drinking  in  the  beauty  of  her  clear-cut  profile,  bent  down 
towards  her  book,  the  curving  lines  of  her  long  neck,  the 
wonder  of  the  exquisite  white  hand  against  the  lilac  of 
her  dress. 

I  did  not  speak;  rather  would  I  have  remained  so 
watching ;  but  turning  at  the  end  of  the  path,  she  saw  me, 
and  as  she  came  towards  me  held  out  her  hand.  I  knelt 
upon  the  path,  and  raised  it  to  my  lips.  The  action  was 
spontaneous,  till  afterwards  I  was  not  aware  of  having 
done  it.  Her  lips  were  smiling  as  I  raised  my  eyes  to 
them,  the  faintest  suggestion  of  contempt  mingling  with 
amusement.  Yet  she  seemed  pleased,  and  her  contempt, 
even  if  I  were  not  mistaken,  would  not  have  wounded  me. 

"So  you  are  still  in  love  with  me?  I  wondered  if  you 
would  be." 

"Did  you  know  that  I  was  in  love  with  you  ?" 

"I  should  have  been  blind  if  I  had  not." 

"But  I  was  only  a  boy." 

"You  were  not  the  usual  type  of  boy.  You  are  not  go- 
ing to  be  the  usual  type  of  man." 

"You  do  not  mind  my  loving  you  ?" 

"I  cannot  help  it,  can  I  ?    Nor  can  you." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  stone  bench  facing  a  sun-dial, 
and  leaning  back,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head, 
looked  at  me  and  laughed. 

"I  shall  always  love  you,"  I  answered,  "but  it  is  with  a 
curious  sort  of  love.     I  do  not  understand  it  myself." 

"Tell  me,"  she  commanded,  still  with  a  smile  about  her 
lips^  "describe  it  to  me." 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil    315 

I  was  standing  over  against  her,  my  arm  resting  upon 
the  dial's  stone  column.  The  sun  was  sinking,  casting 
long  shadows  on  the  velvety  grass,  illuminating  with  a 
golden  light  her  upturned  face. 

"I  would  you  were  some  great  queen  of  olden  days,  and 
that  I  might  be  always  near  you,  serving  you,  doing  your 
bidding.  Your  love  in  return  would  spoil  all ;  I  shall 
never  ask  it,  never  desire  it.  That  I  might  look  upon  you, 
touch  now  and  then  at  rare  intervals  with  my  lips  your 
hand,  kiss  in  secret  the  glove  you  had  let  fall,  the  shoe 
you  had  flung  off,  know  that  you  knew  of  my  love,  that 
I  was  yours  to  do  with  as  you  would,  to  live  or  die  accord- 
ing to  your  wish.  Or  that  you  were  priestess  in  some 
temple  of  forgotten  gods,  where  I  might  steal  at  day- 
break and  at  dusk  to  gaze  upon  your  beauty ;  kneel  with 
clasped  hands,  watching  your  sandalled  feet  coming  and 
going  about  the  altar  steps ;  lie  with  pressed  lips  upon  the 
stones  your  trailing  robes  had  touched." 

She  laughed  a  light  mocking  laugh.  'T  should  prefer 
to  be  the  queen.  The  role  of  priestess  would  not  suit  me. 
Temples  are  so  cold."  A  slight  shiver  passed  through 
her.  She  made  a  movement  with  her  hand,  beckoning  me 
to  her  feet.  "That  is  how  you  shall  love  me,  Paul,"  she 
said,  "adoring  me,  worshipping  me — ^blindly.  I  will  be 
your  queen  and  treat  you — as  it  chooses  me.  All  I  think, 
all  I  do,  I  will  tell  you,  and  you  shall  tell  me  it  is  right. 
The  queen  can  do  no  wrong." 

She  took  my  face  between  her  hands,  and  bending  over 
me,  looked  long  and  steadfastly  into  my  eyes.  "You  un- 
derstand, Paul,  the  queen  can  do  no  wrong — never, 
never."  There  had  crept  into  her  voice  a  note  of  vehe- 
mence, in  her  face  was  a  look  almost  of  appeal. 

"My  queen  can  do  no  wrong,"  I  repeated.  And  she 
laughed  and  let  her  hands  fall  back  upon  her  lap. 

"Now  you  may  sit  beside  me.  So  much  honour,  Paul, 
shall  you  have  to-day,  but  it  will  have  to  last  you  long. 
And  you  may  tell  me  all  you  have  been  doing,  maybe  it 


3i6  Paul  Kelver 

will  amuse  me;  and  afterwards  you  shall  hear  what  I 
have  done,  and  shall  say  that  it  was  right  and  good  of 
me." 

I  obeyed,  sketching  my  story  briefly,  yet  leaving  noth- 
ing untold,  not  even  the  transit  of  the  Lady  'Ortensia, 
ashamed  of  the  episode  though  I  was.  At  that  she  looked 
a  little  grave. 

"You  must  do  nothing  again,  Paul,"  she  commanded, 
"to  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  you,  or  I  shall  dismiss  you 
from  my  presence  for  ever.  I  must  be  proud  of  you,  or 
you  shall  not  serve  me.  In  dishonouring  yourself  you  are 
dishonouring  me.  I  am  angry  with  you,  Paul.  Do  not 
let  me  be  angry  with  you  again." 

And  so  that  passed ;  and  although  my  love  for  her — as 
I  know  well  she  wished  and  sought  it  should — failed  to 
save  me  at  all  times  from  the  apish  voices  whispering 
ever  to  the  beast  within  us,  I  know  the  desire  to  be  worthy 
of  her,  to  honour  her  with  all  my  being,  helped  my  life  as 
only  love  can.  The  glory  of  the  morning  fades,  the  magic 
veil  is  rent;  we  see  all  things  with  cold,  clear  eyes.  My 
love  was  a  woman.  She  lies  dead.  They  have  mocked 
her  white  sweet  limbs  with  rags  and  tatters,  but  they 
cannot  cheat  love's  eyes.  God  knows  I  loved  her  in  all 
purity !  Only  with  false  love  we  love  the  false.  Beneath 
the  unclean  clinging  garments  she  sleeps  fair. 

My  tale  finished,  "Now  I  will  tell  you  mine,"  she  said. 
"I  am  going  to  be  married  soon.  I  shall  be  a  Countess, 
Paul,  the  Countess  Huescar — I  will  teach  you  how  to 
pronounce  it — and  I  shall  have  a  real  castle  in  Spain.  You 
need  not  look  so  frightened,  Paul ;  we  shall  not  live  there. 
It  is  a  half-ruined,  gloomy  place,  among  the  mountains, 
and  he  loves  it  even  less  than  I  do.  Paris  and  London 
will  be  my  courts,  so  you  will  see  me  often.  You  shall 
know  the  great  world,  Paul,  the  world  I  mean  to  conquer, 
where  I  mean  to  rule." 

"Is  he  very  rich?"  I  asked. 

"As  poor,"  she  laughed,  "as  poor  as  a  Spanish  noble- 


The  Glory  and  Goodness- and  the  Evil    317 

man.  The  money  I  shall  have  to  provide,  or,  rather,  poor 
dear  Dad  will.  He  gives  me  title,  position.  Of  course  I 
do  not  love  him,  handsome  though  he  is.  Don't  look  so 
solemn,  Paul.  We  shall  get  on  together  well  enough. 
Queens,  Paul,  do  not  make  love  matches,  they  contract 
alliances.  I  have  done  well,  Paul ;  congratulate  me.  Do 
you  hear,  Paul  ?    Say  that  I  have  acted  rightly." 

"Does  he  love  you?"  I  asked. 

"He  tells  me  so,"  she  answered,  with  a  laugh.  "How 
uncourtier-like  you  are,  Paul !  Do  you  suggest  that  any 
man  could  see  me  and  not  love  me?" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "I  do  not  want  his  love,"  she 
cried ;  "it  would  bore  me.  Women  hate  love  they  cannot 
return.  I  don't  mean  love  like  yours,  devout  little  Paul," 
she  added,  with  a  laugh.  "That  is  sweet  incense  wafted 
round  us  that  we  like  to  scent  with  our  noses  in  the  air. 
Give  me  that,  Paul ;  I  want  it,  I  ask  for  it.  But  the  love 
of  a  hand,  the  love  of  a  husband  that  one  does  not  care 
for — it  would  be  horrible !" 

I  felt  myself  growing  older.  For  the  moment  my 
goddess  became  a  child  needing  help. 

"But  have  you  thought — "  I  commenced. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  interrupted  me  quickly,  "I  have  thought 
and  thought  till  I  can  think  no  more.  There  must  be  some 
sacrifice;  it  must  be  as  little  as  need  be,  that  is  all.  He 
does  not  love  me ;  he  is  marrying  me  for  my  money — I 
know  that,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  do  not  know  me, 
Paul.  I  must  have  rank,  position.  What  am  I?  The 
daughter  of  rich  old  Hasluck,  who  began  life  as  a  butcher 
in  the  Mile  End  Road.  As  the  Princess  Huescar,  society 
will  forget,  as  Mrs." — it  seemed  to  me  she  checked 
herself  abruptly — "Jones  or  Brown  it  would  remember, 
however  rich  I  might  be.  I  am  vain,  Paul,  caring  for 
power — ambition.  I  have  my  father's  blood  in  me.  All 
his  nights  and  days  he  has  spent  in  gaining  wealth ;  he  can 
do  no  more.  We  upstarts  have  our  pride  of  race.  He 
has  done  his  share,  I  must  do  mine." 


3i8  Paul  Kelver 

"But  you  need  not  be  mere  Mrs.  anybody  common- 
place/' I  argued.  ''Why  not  wait  ?  You  will  meet  someone 
who  can  give  you  position  and  whom  at  the  same  time  you 
can  love.    Would  that  not  be  better?" 

"He  will  never  come,  the  man  I  could  love,"  she 
answered.  "Because,  my  little  Paul,  he  has  come  already. 
Hush,  Paul,  the  queen  can  do  no  wrong." 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked.    "May  I  not  know?" 

"Yes, Paul," she  answered, "you  shall  know;  I  want  you 
to  know,  then  you  shall  tell  me  that  I  have  acted  rightly. 
Do  you  hear  me,  Paul? — quite  rightly — that  you  still  re- 
spect me  and  honour  me.  He  could  not  help  me.  As  his 
wife,  I  should  be  less  even  than  I  am,  a  mere  rich  nobody, 
giving  long  dinner-parties  to  other  rich  nobodies,  living 
amongst  City  men,  retired  trades-people;  envied  only  by 
their  fat,  vulgarly  dressed  wives,  courted  by  seedy  Bo- 
hemians for  the  sake  of  my  cook ;  with  perhaps  an  opera 
singer  or  an  impecunious  nobleman  or  two  out  of  Dad's 
City  list  for  my  show-guests.  Is  that  the  court,  Paul, 
where  you  would  have  your  queen  reign  ?" 

"Is  he  so  commonplace  a  man,"  I  answered,  "the  man 
you  love  ?     I  cannot  believe  it." 

"He  is  not  commonplace,"  she  answered.  "It  is  I  who 
am  commonplace.  The  things  I  desire,  they  are  beneath 
him;  he  will  never  trouble  himself  to  secure  them." 

"Not  even  for  love  of  you?" 

"I  would  not  have  him  do  so,  even  were  he  willing.  He 
is  great,  with  a  greatness  I  cannot  even  understand.  He 
is  not  the  man  for  these  times.  In  old  days,  I  should 
have  married  him,  knowing  he  would  climb  to  greatness 
by  sheer  strength  of  manhood.  But  now  men  do  not 
climb ;  they  crawl  to  greatness.  He  could  not  do  that.  I 
have  done  right,  Paul." 

"What  does  he  say?"  I  asked. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  She  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "I 
can  give  you  his  exact  words,  'You  are  half  a  woman  and 
half  a  fool,  so  woman-like  you  will  follow  your  folly. 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil    319 

But  let  vour  folly  see  to  it  that  your  woman  makes  no 
fool  of  herself.'  " 

The  words  were  what  I  could  imagine  his  saying.  I 
heard  the  strong  ring  of  his  voice  through  her  mocking 
mimicry. 

"Hal  r  I  cried.    "It  is  he." 

"So  you  never  guessed  even  that,  Paul.  I  thought  at 
times  it  would  be  sweet  to  cry  it  out  aloud,  that  it  could 
have  made  no  difference,  that  everyone  who  knew  me 
must  have  read  it  in  my  eyes." 

"But  he  never  seemed  to  take  much  notice  of  you,"  I 
said. 

She  laughed.  "You  needn't  be  so  unkind,  Paul.  What 
did  I  ever  do  for  you  much  more  than  snub  you?  We 
boys  and  girls;  there  is  not  so  much  difference  between 
us :  we  love  our  masters.  Yet  you  must  not  think  so 
poorly  of  me.  I  was  only  a  child  to  him  then,  but  we  were 
locked  up  in  Paris  together  during  the  entire  siege.  Have 
not  you  heard?  He  did  take  a  little  notice  of  me  there, 
Paul,  I  assure  you." 

Would  it  have  been  better,  I  wonder,  had  she  followed 
the  woman  and  not  the  fool  ?  It  sounds  an  easy  question 
to  anwer ;  but  I  am  thinking  of  years  later,  one  winter's 
night  at  Tiefenkasten  in  the  Julier  Pass.  I  was  on  my 
way  from  San  Moritz  to  Chur.  The  sole  passenger,  I  had 
just  climbed,  half  frozen,  from  the  sledge,  and  was  thaw- 
ing myself  before  the  stove  in  the  common  room  of  the 
hotel  when  the  waiter  put  a  pencilled  note  into  my  hand : 

"Come  up  and  see  me.  I  am  a  prisoner  in  this  damned 
hole  till  the  weather  breaks.    Hal." 

I  hardly  recognised  him  at  first.  Only  the  poor  ghost 
he  seemed  of  the  Hal  I  had  known  as  a  boy.  His  long 
privations  endured  during  the  Paris  siege,  added  to  the 
superhuman  work  he  had  there  put  upon  himself,  had 
commenced  the  ruin  of  even  his  magnificent  physique — 
a  ruin  the  wild,  loose  life  he  was  now  leading  was  soon  to 
complete.     It  was  a  gloomy,  vaulted  room  that  once  had 


320  Paul  Kelver 

been  a  chapel,  lighted  dimly  by  a  cheap,  evil-smelling 
lamp,  heated  to  suffocation  by  one  of  those  great  green- 
tiled  German  ovens  now  only  to  be  met  with  in  rare 
out-of-the-way  world  corners.  He  was  sitting  propped 
up  by  pillows  on  the  bed,  placed  close  to  one  of  the 
high  windows,  his  deep  eyes  flaring  like  two  gleaming 
caverns  out  of  his  drawn,  haggard  face. 

"I  saw  you  from  the  window,"  he  explained.  "It  is  the 
only  excitement  I  get,  twice  a  day  when  the  sledges  come 
in.  I  broke  down  coming  across  the  Pass  a  fortnight  ago, 
on  my  way  from  Davos.  We  were  stuck  in  a  drift  for 
eighteen  hours ;  it  nearly  finished  my  last  lung.  And  I 
haven't  even  a  book  to  read.  By  God !  lad,  I  was  glad  to 
see  your  frosted  face  ten  minutes  ago  in  the  light  of  the 
lantern." 

He  grasped  me  with  his  long  bony  hand;  "Sit  down, 
and  let  me  hear  my  voice  using  again  its  mother  tongue — 
you  were  always  a  good  listener — for  the  last  eight  years 
I  have  hardly  spoken  it.  Can  you  stand  the  room?  The 
windows  ought  to  be  open,  but  what  does  it  matter?  I 
may  as  well  get  accustomed  to  the  heat  before  I  die." 

I  drew  my  chair  close  to  the  bed,  and  for  awhile,  be- 
tween his  fits  of  coughing,  we  talked  of  things  that  were 
outside  our  thoughts,  or,  rather,  Hal  talked,  continuously, 
boisterously,  meeting  my  remonstrances  with  shouts  of 
laughter,  ending  in  wild  struggles  for  breath,  so  that  I 
deemed  It  better  to  let  him  work  his  mad  mood  out. 

Then  suddenly:  "What  is  she  doing?"  he  asked.  "Do 
you  ever  see  her  ?" 

"She  is  playing  in — "  I  mentioned  the  name  of  a  comic 
opera  then  running  in  Paris.  "No ;  I  have  not  seen  her 
for  some  time." 

He  laid  his  white,  wasted  hand  on  mine.  "What  a 
pity  you  and  I  could  not  have  rolled  ourselves  into  one, 
Paul — you,  the  saint,  and  I,  the  satyr.  Together  we 
should  have  made  her  perfect  lover." 

There  came  back  to  me  the  memory  of  those  long  nights 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil     321 

when  I  had  lain  awake  listening  to  the  angry  voices  of  my 
father  and  mother  soaking  through  the  flimsy  wall.  It 
seemed  my  fate  to  stand  thus  helpless  between  those  I 
loved,  watching  them  hurting  one  another  against  their 
will. 

''Tell  me,"  I  asked — "I  loved  her,  knowing  her :  I  was 
not  blind.    Whose  fault  was  it?    Yours  or  hers?" 

He  laughed.    "Whose  fault,  Paul?    God  made  us." 

Thinking  of  her  fair,  sweet  face,  I  hated  him  for  his 
mocking  laugh.  But  the  next  moment,  looking  into  his 
deep  eyes,  seeing  the  pain  that  dwelt  there,  my  pity  was 
for  him.    A  smile  came  to  his  ugly  mouth. 

"You  have  been  on  the  stage,  Paul;  you  must  have 
heard  the  saying  often :  'Ah,  well,  the  curtain  must  come 
down,  however  badly  things  are  going.'  It  is  only  a  play, 
Paul.  We  do  not  choose  our  parts.  I  did  not  even  know 
I  was  the  villain,  till  I  heard  the  booing  of  the  gallery.  I 
even  thought  I  was  the  hero,  full  of  noble  sentiment,  sac- 
rificing myself  for  the  happiness  of  the  heroine.  She 
would  have  married  me  in  the  beginning  had  I  plagued 
her  sufficiently." 

I  made  to  speak,  but  he  interrupted  me,  continuing: 
"Ah,  yes ;  it  might  have  been  better.  That  is  easy  to  say, 
not  knowing.  So,  too,  it  might  have  been  worse — in  all 
probability  much  the  same.  All  roads  lead  to  the  end. 
You  know  I  was  always  a  fatalist,  Paul.  We  tried  both 
ways.  She  loved  me  well  enough,  but  she  loved  the  world 
also.  I  thought  she  loved  it  better,  so  I  kissed  her  on  her 
brow,  mumbled  a  prayer  for  her  happiness  and  made  my 
exit  to  a  choking  sob.  So  ended  the  first  act.  Wasn't 
I  the  hero  throughout  that,  Paul  ?  I  thought  so ;  slapped 
myself  upon  the  back,  told  myself  what  a  fine  fellow  I 
had  been.  Then — you  know  what  followed.  She  was 
finer  clay  than  she  had  fancied.  Love  is  woman's  king- 
dom, not  the  world.  Even  then  I  thought  more  of  her 
than  of  myself.  I  could  have  borne  my  share  of  the 
burden  had  I  not  seen  her  fainting  under  hers,  shamed. 


322  Paul  Kelver 

degraded.  So  we  dared  to  think  for  ourselves,  injuring 
nobody  but  ourselves,  played  the  man  and  woman,  lost 
the  world  for  love.  Wasn't  it  brave,  Paul?  Were  we 
not  hero  and  heroine?  They  had  printed  the  playbill 
wrong,  Paul,  that  was  all.  I  was  really  the  hero,  but  the 
printing  devil  had  made  a  slip,  so  instead  of  applauding 
you  booed.  How  could  you  know,  any  of  you?  It  was 
not  your  fault." 

"But  that  was  not  the  end,"  I  reminded  him.  "If  the 
curtain  had  fallen  then,  I  could  have  forgiven  you." 

He  grinned.  "That  fatal  last  act.  Even  yours  don't 
always  come  right,  so  the  critics  tell  me. 

The  grin  faded  from  his  face.  "We  may  never  see 
each  other  again,  Paul,"  he  went  on;  "don't  think  too 
badly  of  me.  I  found  I  had  made  a  second  mistake — or 
thought  I  had.  She  was  no  happier  with  me  after  a  time 
than  she  had  been  with  him.  If  all  our  longings  were  one, 
life  would  be  easy ;  but  they  are  not.  What  is  to  be  done 
but  toss  for  it  ?  And  if  it  come  down  head  we  wish  it  had 
been  tail,  and  if  tail  we  think  of  what  we  have  lost 
through  its  not  coming  down  head.  Love  is  no  more  the 
whole  of  a  woman's  life  than  it  is  of  a  man's.  He  did  not 
apply  for  a  divorce;  that  was  smart  of  him.  We  were 
shunned,  ignored.  To  some  women  it  might  not  have 
mattered ;  but  she  had  been  used  to  being  sought,  courted, 
feted.  She  made  no  complaint — did  worse :  made  des- 
perate effort  to  appear  cheerful,  to  pretend  that  our  hum- 
drum life  was  not  boring  her  to  death.  I  watched  her 
growing  more  listless,  more  depressed ;  grew  angry  with 
her,  angrier  with  myself.  There  was  no  bond  between  us 
except  our  passion ;  that  was  real  enough — 'grand,*  I  be- 
lieve, is  the  approved  literary  adjective.  It  is  good 
enough  for  what  nature  intended  it,  a  summer  season  in  a 
cave.  It  makes  but  a  poor  marriage  settlement  in  these 
more  complicated  days.  We  fell  to  mutual  recriminations, 
vulgar  scenes.  Ah,  most  of  us  look  better  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  one  another.    The  sordid,  contemptible  side  of 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil    323 

life  became  important  to  us.  I  was  never  rich;  by  con- 
trast with  all  that  she  had  known,  miserably  poor.  The 
mere  sight  of  the  food  our  twelve-pound-a-year  cook  put 
upon  the  table  would  take  away  her  appetite.  Love  does 
not  change  the  palate,  give  you  a  taste  for  cheap  claret 
when  you  have  been  accustomed  to  dry  champagne.  We 
have  bodies  to  think  of  as  well  as  souls;  we  are  apt  to 
forget  that  in  moments  of  excitement. 

''She  fell  ill^  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  dragged 
her  from  the  soil  where  she  had  grown  only  to  watch  her 
die.  And  then  he  came,  precisely  at  the  right  moment.  I 
cannot  help  admiring  him.  Most  men  take  their  revenge 
clumsily,  hurting  themselves;  he  was  so  neat,  had  been 
so  patient.  I  am  not  even  ashamed  of  having  fallen  into 
his  trap ;  it  was  admirably  baited.  Maybe  I  had  despised 
him  for  having  seemed  to  submit  meekly  to  the  blow. 
What  cared  he  for  me  and  my  opinion?  It  was  she  was 
all  he  cared  for.  He  knew  her  better  than  I,  knew  that 
sooner  or  later  she  would  tire,  not  of  love  but  of  the  cot- 
tage; look  back  with  longing  eyes  towards  all  that  she 
had  lost.  Fool !  Cuckold !  What  was  it  to  him  that  the 
world  would  laugh  at  him,  despise  him?  Love  such  as 
his  made  fools  of  men.  Would  I  not  give  her  back  to 
him? 

''By  God!  It  was  fine  acting;  half  into  the  night  we 
talked,  I  leaving  him  every  now  and  again  to  creep  to  the 
top  of  the  stairs  and  listen  to  her  breathing.  He  asked 
me  my  advice,  I  being  the  hard-headed  partner  of  cool 
judgment.  What  would  be  the  best  way  of  approaching 
her  after  I  was  gone  ?  Where  should  he  take  her  ?  How 
should  they  live  till  the  nine  days'  talk  had  died  away? 
And  I  sat  opposite  to  him — how  he  must  have  longed  to 
laugh  in  my  silly  face — advising  him !  We  could  not  quite 
agree  as  to  details  of  a  possible  yachting  cruise,  and  I  re- 
member hunting  up  an  atlas,  and  we  pored  over  it,  our 
heads  close  together.    By  God !    I  envy  him  that  night !" 

He  sank  back  on  his  pillows  and  laughed  and  coughed, 


324  Paul  Kelver 

and  laughed  and  coughed  again,  till  I  feared  that  wild, 
long,  broken  laugh  would  be  his  last.  But  it  ceased  at 
length,  and  for  awhile,  exhausted,  he  lay  silent  before  con- 
tinuing. 

"Then  came  the  question :  how  was  I  to  go?  She  loved 
me  still.  He  was  sure  of  it,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
so  was  I.  So  long  as  she  thought  that  I  loved  her,  she 
would  never  leave  me.  Only  from  her  despair  could 
fresh  hope  arise  for  her.  Would  I  not  make  some  sacrifice 
for  her  sake,  persuade  her  that  I  had  tired  of  her  ?  Only 
by  one  means  could  she  be  convinced.  My  going  off  alone 
would  not  suffice ;  my  reason  for  that  she  might  suspect — 
she  might  follow.  It  would  be  for  her  sake.  Again  it 
was  the  hero  that  I  played,  the  dear  old  chuckle-headed 
hero,  Paul,  that  you  ought  to  have  cheered,  not  hooted. 
I  loved  her  as  much  as  I  ever  loved  her  in  my  life,  that 
night  I  left  her.  I  took  my  boots  off  in  the  passage  and 
crept  up  in  my  stockinged  feet.  I  told  him  I  was  merely 
going  to  change  my  coat  and  put  a  few  things  into  a  bag. 
He  gripped  my  hand,  and  tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes. 
It  is  odd  that  suppressed  laughter  and  expressed  grief 
should  both  display  the  same  token,  is  it  not  ?  I  stole  into 
her  room.  I  dared  not  kiss  her  for  -fear  of  waking  her ; 
but  a  stray  lock  of  her  hair — you  remember  how  long  it 
was — fell  over  the  pillow,  nearly  reaching  to  the  floor.  I 
pressed  my  lips  against  it,  where  it  trailed  over  the  bed- 
stead, till  they  bled.  I  have  it  still  upon  my  lips,  the 
mingling  of  the  cold  iron  and  the  warm,  soft  silken  hair. 
He  told  me,  when  I  came  down  again,  that  I  had  been 
gone  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  And  we  went  out  of  the 
house  together,  he  and  I.  That  is  the  last  time  I  ever  saw 
her." 

I  leant  across  and  put  my  arms  around  him ;  I  suppose 
it  was  un-English ;  there  are  times  when  one  forgets  these 
points.    'T  did  not  know !     I  did  not  know,"  I  cried. 

He  pressed  me  to  him  with  his  feeble  arms.  "What  a 
cad  you  must  have  thought  me,  Paul,"  he  said.    "But  you 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil    325 

might  have  given  me  credit  for  better  taste.  I  was  al- 
ways rather  a  gourmet  than  a  gourmand  where  women 
were  concerned." 

"You  have  never  seen  him  either  again?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered ;  "I  swore  to  kill  him  when  I  learnt 
the  trick  he  had  played  me.  He  commenced  the  divorce 
proceedings  against  her  the  very  morning  after  I  had 
left  her.  Possibly,  had  I  succeeded  in  finding  him  within 
the  next  six  months,  I  should  have  done  so.  A  few  news- 
paper proprietors  would  have  been  the  only  people  really 
benefited.  Time  is  the  cheapest  Bravo ;  a  little  patience  is 
all  he  charges.    All  roads  lead  to  the  end,  Paul." 

But  I  tell  my  tale  badly,  marring  effects  of  sunlight 
with  the  memory  of  shadows.  At  the  time  all  promised 
fair.  He  was  a  handsome,  distinguished-looking  man. 
Not  every  aristocrat,  if  without  disrespect  to  one's  betters 
a  humble  observer  may  say  so,  suggests  his  title;  this  man 
would  have  suggested  his  title,  had  he  not  possessed  it. 
I  suppose  he  must  have  been  about  fifty  at  the  time ;  but 
most  men  of  thirty  would  have  been  glad  to  exchange 
with  him  both  figure  and  complexion.  His  behaviour 
to  his  fiancee  was  the  essence  of  good  taste,  affectionate 
devotion,  carried  to  the  exact  point  beyond  which,  hav- 
ing regard  to  the  disparity  of  their  years,  it  would  have 
appeared  ridiculous.  That  he  sincerely  admired  her,  was 
fully  content  with  her,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  I  am 
even  inclined  to  think  he  was  fonder  of  her  than,  divining 
her  feelings  towards  himself,  he  cared  to  show.  Knowl- 
edge of  the  world  must  have  told  him  that  men  of  fifty 
find  it  easier  to  be  the  lovers  of  women  young  enough  to 
be  their  daughters,  than  girls  find  it  to  desire  the  affection 
of  men  old  enough  to  be  their  fathers ;  and  he  was  not  the 
man  to  allow  impulse  to  lead  him  into  absurdity. 

From  my  own  peculiar  point  of  view  he  appeared  the 
ideal  prince  consort.  It  was  difficult  for  me  to  imagine 
my  queen  in  love  with  any  mere  man.  This  was  one  be- 
side whom  she  could  live,  losing  in  my  eyes  nothing  of 


326  Paul  Kelver 

her  dignity.  My  feelings  for  her  he  guessed  at  our  first 
interview.  Most  men  in  his  position  would  have  been 
amused,  and  many  would  have  shown  it.  For  what  reason 
I  cannot  say,  but  with  a  tact  and  courtesy  that  left  me 
only  complimented,  he  drew  from  me,  before  I  had  met 
him  half-a-dozen  times,  more  frank  confession  than  a 
month  previously  I  should  have  dreamt  of  my  yielding  to 
anything  than  my  own  pillow.  He  laid  his  hand  upon 
my  shoulder. 

*'I  wonder  if  you  know,  my  friend,  how  wise  you  are," 
he  said.  "We  all  of  us  at  your  age  love  an  image  of  our 
own  carving.  Ah,  if  only  we  could  be  content  to  worship 
the  white,  changeless  statute!  But  we  are  fools.  We 
pray  the  gods  to  give  her  life,  and  under  our  hot  kisses  she 
becomes  a  woman.  I  also  loved  when  I  was  your  age,  Paul. 
Your  countrymen,  they  are  so  practical,  they  know  only 
one  kind  of  love.  It  is  business-like,  rich — how  puts  it 
your  poet?  'rich  in  saving  common  sense.'  But  there  are 
many  kinds,  you  understand  that,  my  friend.  You  are 
wise,  do  not  confuse  them.  She  was  a  child  of  the  moun- 
tains. I  used  to  walk  three  leagues  to  Mass  each  day  to 
worship  her.  Had  I  been  wise — had  I  so  left  it,  the  mem- 
ory of  her  would  have  coloured  all  my  life  with  glory. 
But  I  was  a  fool,  my  friend ;  I  turned  her  into  a  woman. 
Ah!" — he  made  a  gesture  of  disgust — "such  a  fat,  ugly 
woman,  Paul,  I  turned  her  into.  I  had  much  difficulty  in 
getting  rid  of  her.  We  should  never  touch  things  in 
life  that  are  beautiful;  we  have  such  clumsy  hands,  we 
spoil  whatever  we  touch." 

Hal  did  not  return  to  England  till  the  end  of  the  year, 
by  which  time  the  Count  and  Countess  Huescar — though 
I  had  her  permission  still  to  call  her  Barbara,  I  never 
availed  myself  of  it ;  the  "Countess"  fitted  my  mood  better 
— had  taken  up  residence  in  the  grand  Paris  house  old 
Hasluck  had  bought  for  them. 

It  was  the  high-water  mark  of  old  Hasluck^s 
career,  and,  if  anything,  he  was  a  little  disappointed  that 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil    327 

with  the  dowry  he  had  promised  her  Barbara  had  not. 
done  even  better  for  herself. 

"Foreign  Counts,"  he  grumbled  to  me  laughingly,  one 
day,  "well,  I  hope  they're  worth  more  in  Society  than  they 
are  in  the  City.  A  hundred  guineas  is  their  price  there, 
and  they're  not  worth  that.  Who  was  that  American  girl 
that  married  a  Russian  Prince  only  last  week  ?  A  million 
dollars  was  all  she  gave  for  him,  and  she  a  wholesale  boot- 
maker's daughter  into  the  bargain !  Our  girls  are  not  half 
as  smart." 

But  that  was  before  he  had  seen  his  future  son-in-law. 
After,  he  was  content  enough,  and  up  to  the  day  of  the 
wedding,  childishly  elated.  Under  the  Count's  tuition  he 
studied  with  reverential  awe  the  Huescar  history. 
Princes,  statesmen,  warriors,  glittered,  golden  apples, 
from  the  spreading  branches  of  its  genealogical  tree. 
Why  not  again !  its  attenuated  blue  sap  strengthened  with 
the  rich,  red  blood,  brewed  by  toil  and  effort  in  the  grim 
laboratories  of  the  under  world.  In  imagination,  old 
Hasluck  saw  himself  the  grandfather  of  Chancellors,  the 
great-grandfather  of  Kings. 

"I  have  laid  the  foundation,  you  shall  raise  the  edifice," 
so  he  told  her  one  evening  I  was  spending  with  them, 
caressing  her  golden  hair  with  his  blunt,  fat  fingers.  "I 
am  glad  you  were  not  a  boy.  A  boy,  in  all  probability, 
would  have  squandered  the  money,  let  the  name  sink  back 
again  into  the  gutter.  And  even  had  he  been  the  other 
sort,  he  could  only  have  been  another  business  man,  keep- 
ing where  I  had  left  him.  You  will  call  your  first  boy 
Hasluck,  won't  you?  It  must  always  be  the  first-born's 
name.  It  shall  be  famous  in  the  world  yet,  and  for  some- 
thing else  than  mere  money." 

I  began  to  understand  the  influences  that  had  gone  to- 
wards the  making— or  marring — of  Barbara's  character. 
I  had  never  guessed  he  had  cared  for  anything  beyond 
money  and  the  making  of  money. 

It  was,  of  course,  a  wedding  as  ostentatious  as  possible. 


328  Paul  Kelver 

Old  Hasluck  knew  how  to  advertise,  and  spared  neither 
expense  nor  labour,  with  the  result  that  it  was  the  event  of 
the  season,  at  least  according  to  the  Society  papers.  Mrs. 
Hasluck  was  the  type  of  woman  to  have  escaped  obser- 
vation, even  had  the  wedding  been  her  own ;  that  she  was 
present  at  her  daughter's,  ''becomingly  dressed  in  grey 
veiling  spotted  white,  with  an  encrustation  of  mousseline 
de  soie,"  I  learnt  the  next  day  from  the  Morning  Post. 
Old  Hasluck  himself  had  to  be  fetched  every  time  he  was 
wanted.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  seeking  him, 
1  found  him  sitting  on  the  stairs  leading  to  the  crypt. 

"Is  it  over?"  he  asked.  He  was  mopping  his  face  on  a 
huge  handkerchief,  and  had  a  small  looking-gliass  in  his 
hand. 

"All  over,"  I  answered,  "they  are  waiting  for  you  to 
start." 

"I  always  perspire  so  when  I'm  excited,"  he  explained. 
"Keep  me  out  of  it  as  much  as  possible." 

But  the  next  time  I  saw  him,  which  was  two  or  three 
days  later,  the  reaction  had  set  in.  He  was  sitting  in  his 
great  library,  surrounded  by  books  he  would  no  more 
have  thought  of  disturbing  than  he  would  of  strumming 
on  the  gorgeous  grand  piano  inlaid  with  silver  that  orna- 
mented his  drawing-room.  A  change  had  passed  over 
him.  His  swelling  rotundity,  suggestive  generally  of  a 
bladder  inflated  to  its  extremest  limits  by  excess  of  self- 
importance,  appeared  to  be  shrinking.  I  put  the  idea 
aside  as  mere  fancy  at  the  time,  but  it  was  fact ;  he  became 
a  mere  bag  of  bones  before  he  died.  He  was  wearing  an 
old  pair  of  carpet  slippers  and  smoking  a  short  clay  pipe. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "everything  went  of?  all  right." 

"Everybody's  gone  off  all  right,  so  far,"  he  grunted. 
He  was  crouching  over  the  fire,  though  the  weather  was 
still  warm,  one  hand  spread  out  towards  the  blaze.  "Now 
I've  got  to  go  off,  that's  the  only  thing  they're  waiting 
for.     Then  everything  will  be  in  order." 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil     329 

''I  don't  think  they  are  wanting  you  to  go  off,"  I 
answered,  with  a  laugh. 

"You  mean,"  he  answered,  "I'm  the  goose  that  lays  the 
golden  eggs.  Ah,  but  you  see,  so  many  of  the  eggs  break, 
and  so  many  of  them  are  bad." 

"Some  of  them  hatch  all  right,"  I  replied.  The  simile 
was  becoming  somewhat  confused :  in  conversation  simi- 
les are  apt  to. 

"If  I  were  to  die  this  week,"  he  said — ^he  paused,  com- 
pleting mental  calculations,  "I  should  be  worth,  roughly 
speaking,  a  couple  of  million.  This  time  next  year  I  may 
be  owing  a  million." 

I  sat  down  opposite  to  him.  "Why  run  risks  ?"  I  sug- 
gested. "Surely  you  have  enough.  Why  not  give  it  up — 
retire?" 

He  laughed.  "Do  you  think  I  haven't  said  that  to  my- 
self, lad — sworn  I  would  a  dozen  times  a  year?  I  can't 
do  it ;  I'm  a  gambler.  It's  the  earliest  thing  I  can  recol- 
lect doing,  gambling  with  brace  buttons.  There  are  men, 
Paul,  now  dying  in  the  workhouse — men  I  once  knew 
well ;  I  think  of  them  sometimes,  and  wish  I  didn't — who 
any  time  during  half  their  life  might  have  retired  on 
twenty  thousand  a  year.  If  I  were  to  go  to  any  one  of 
them,  and  settle  an  annuity  of  a  hundred  a  year  upon  him, 
the  moment  my  back  was  turned  he'd  sell  it  out  and  totter 
up  to  Threadneedle  Street  wjth  the  proceeds.  It's  in  our 
blood.  I  shall  gamble  on  my  death-bed,  die  with  the  tape 
in  my  hand." 

He  kicked  the  fire  into  a  blaze.  A  roaring  flame  made 
the  room  light  again. 

"But  that  won't  be  just  yet  awhile,"  he  laughed,  "and 
before  it  does,  I'll  be  the  richest  man  in  Europe.  I  keep 
my  head  cool — that's  the  great  secret."  Leaning  over  to- 
wards me,  he  sunk  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "Drink,  Paul — 
so  many  of  them  drink.  They  get  worried ;  fifty  things 
dancing  round  and  round  at  the  same  time  in  their  heads. 


330  Paul  Kelver 

Fifty  questions  to  he  answered  in  five  minutes.  Tick, 
tick,  tick,  taps  the  little  devil  at  their  elbow.  This  going 
down,  that  going  up.  Rumor  of  this,  report  of  that.  A 
fortune  to  be  lost  here,  a  fortune  to  be  snatched  there. 
Everything  in  a  whirl !  Tick,  tick,  tick,  like  nails  into  a 
coffin.  God !  for  five  minutes'  peace  to  think.  Shut  the 
door,  turn  the  key.  Out  comes  the  bottle.  That's  the  end. 
All  right  so  long  as  you  keep  away  from  that.  Cool, 
quick  brain,  clear  judgment — that's  the  secret." 

*'But  is  it  worth  it  all?"  I  suggested.  ^'Surely  you  have 
enough  ?" 

"It  means  power,  Paul."  He  slapped  his  trousers 
pocket,  making  the  handful  of  gold  and  silver  he  always 
carried  there  jingle  musically.  "It  is  this  that  rules  the 
world.  My  children  shall  be  big  pots,  hobnob  with  kings 
and  princes,  slap  them  on  the  back  and  call  them  by  their 
Christian  names,  be  kings  themselves — why  not?  It's 
happened  before.  My  children,  the  children  of  old  Noel 
Hasluck,  son  of  a  Whitechapel  butcher !  Here's  my  pedi- 
gree!" Again  he  slapped  his  tuneful  pocket.  "It's  an 
older  one  than  theirs!  It's  coming  into  its  own  at  last! 
It's  money — we  men  of  money — that  are  the  true  kings 
now.  It's  our  family  that  rules  the  world — the  great 
money  family ;  I  mean  to  be  its  head." 

The  blaze  died  out,  leaving  the  room  almost  in  dark- 
ness, and  for  awhile  we  sat  in  silence. 

"Quiet,  isn't  it?"  said  old  Hasluck,  raising  his  head. 

The  settling  of  the  falling  embers  was  the  only  sound 
about  us. 

"Guess  we'll  always  be  like  this,  now,"  continued  old 
Hasluck.  "Old  woman  goes  to  bed,  you  see,  immediately 
after  dinner.  It  used  to  be  diflFerent  when  she  was  about. 
Somehow,  the  house  and  the  lackeys  and  all  the  rest  of  it 
seemed  to  be  a  more  natural  sort  of  thing  when  she  was 
the  centre  of  it.  It  frightens  the  old  woman  now  she's 
gone.  She  likes  to  get  away  from  it.  Poor  old  Susan! 
A  little  country  inn  with  herself  as  landlady  and  me  fuss- 


The  Glory  and  Goodness  and  the  Evil     331 

ing  about  behind  the  bar;  that  was  always  her  ambition, 
poor  old  girl !" 

''You  will  be  visiting  them,"  I  suggested,  ''and  they  will 
be  coming  to  stop  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  won't  want  me,  and  it  isn't 
my  game  to  hamper  them.  I  never  mix  out  of  my  class. 
I've  always  had  sense  enough  for  that." 

I  laughed,  wishing  to  cheer  him,  though  I  knew  he  was 
right.  "Surely  your  daughter  belongs  to  your  own  class/' 
I  replied. 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  grin.  "That's  not 
a  pretty  compliment  to  her.  She  was  my  child  when  she 
used  to  cling  round  my  neck,  while  I  made  the  sausages, 
calling  me  her  dear  old  pig.  It  didn't  trouble  her  then 
that  I  dropped  my  aitches  and  had  a  greasy  skin.  I  was 
a  Whitechapel  butcher,  and  she  was  a  Whitechapel  brat. 
I  could  have  kept  her  if  I'd  liked,  but  I  was  set  upon  mak- 
ing a  lady  of  her,  and  I  did  it.  But  I  lost  my  child.  Every 
time  she  came  back  from  school  I  could  see  she  despised 
me  a  little  more.  I'm  not  blaming  her ;  how  could  she  help 
it?  I  was  making  a  lady  of  her,  teaching  her  to  do  it; 
though  there  were  moments  when  I  almost  hated  her,  felt 
tempted  to  snatch  her  back  to  me,  drag  her  down  again  to 
my  level,  make  her  my  child  again,  before  it  was  too  late. 
Oh,  it  wasn't  all  unselfishness ;  I  could  have  done  it.  She 
would  have  remained  my  class  then,  would  have  married 
my  class,  and  her  children  would  have  been  my  class.  I 
didn't  want  that.  Everything's  got  to  be  paid  for.  I 
got  what  I  asked  for;  I'm  not  grumbling  at  the  price. 
But  it  ain't  cheap." 

He  rose  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  "Ring 
the  bell,  Paul,  will  you  ?"  he  said.  "Let's  have  some  light 
and  something  to  drink.  Don't  take  any  notice  of  me. 
I've  got  the  hump  to-night." 

It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  the  lamp  came.  He  put 
his  arm  upon  my  shoulder,  leaning  upon  me  somewhat 
heavily. 


332 


Paul  Kelver 


"I  used  to  fancy  sometimes,  Paul,"  he  said,  "that  you 
and  she  might  have  made  a  match  of  it.  I  should  have 
been  disappointed  for  some  things.  But  you'd  have  been 
a  bit  nearer  to  me,  you  two.  It  never  occurred  to  you, 
that,  I  suppose?" 


'V 


'^ 


17808 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOW  PAUL  SET  FORTH  UPON  A  QUEST. 

Of  old  Deleglise's  Sunday  suppers,  which,  costumed 
from  head  to  foot  in  spotless  linen,  he  cooked  himself  in 
his  great  kitchen,  moving  with  flushed,  earnest  face  about 
the  gleaming  stove,  while  behind  him  his  guests  waited, 
ranged  round  the  massive  oaken  table  glittering  with  cut 
glass  and  silver,  among  which  fluttered  the  deft  hands  of 
Madeline,  his  ancient  whitecapped  Bonne,  much  has  been 
already  recorded,  and  by  those  possessed  of  greater 
knowledge.  They  who  sat  there  talking  in  whispers  until 
such  time  as  old  Deleglise  turned  towards  them  again, 
radiant  with  consciousness  of  success,  the  savoury  tri- 
umph steaming  between  his  hands,  when,  like  the  sudden 
swell  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata,  the  talk  would  rush  once 
more  into  a  roar,  were  men  whose  names  were  then — and 
some  are  still — more  or  less  household  words  throughout 
the  EngHsh-speaking  world.  Artists,  musicians,  actors, 
writers,  scholars,  droles,  their  wit  and  wisdom,  their  say- 
ings and  their  doings  must  be  tolerably  familiar  to  readers 
of  memoir  and  biography;  and  if  to  such  their  epigrams 
appear  less  brilliant,  their  jests  less  laughable  than  to  us 
who  heard  them  spoken,  that  is  merely  because  fashion 
in  humour  and  in  understanding  changes  as  in  all  else. 

You,  gentle  reader  of  my  book,  I  shall  not  trouble  with 
second-hand  record  of  that  which  you  can  read  elsewhere. 
For  me  it  will  be  but  to  write  briefly  of  my  own  brief 
glimpse  into  that  charmed  circle.  Concerning  this  story 
more  are  the  afternoon  At  Homes  held  by  Dan  and  my- 
self upon  the  second  floor  of  the  old  Georgian  house  in 
pleasant,  quiet  Queen  Square.     For  cook  and  house-maid 


334  P^^l  Kelver 

on  these  days  it  would  be  a  busy  morning.  Failing  other 
supervision,  Dan  and  I  agreed  that  to  secure  success  on 
these  important  occasions  each  of  us  should  criticise  the 
work  of  the  other.  I  passed  judgment  on  Dan's  cooking, 
he  upon  my  house-work. 

'Too  much  soda,"  I  would  declare,  sampling  the  cake. 

"You  silly  Juggins!  It's  meant  to  taste  of  soda — it's 
a  soda  cake." 

"I  know  that.  It  isn't  meant  to  taste  of  nothing  but 
soda.  There  wants  to  be  some  cake  about  it  also.  This 
thing,  so  far  as  flavour  is  concerned,  is  nothing  but  a 
Seidlitz  powder.  You  can't  give  people  solidified  Seidlitz 
powders  for  tea !" 

Dan  would  fume,  but  I  would  remain  firm.  The  soda 
cake  would  be  laid  aside,  and  something  else  attempted. 
His  cookery  was  the  one  thing  Dan  was  obstinate  about. 
He  would  never  admit  that  anything  could  possibly  be 
wrong  with  it.  His  most  ghastly  failures  he  would  de- 
vour himself  later  on  with  pretended  enjoyment.  I  have 
known  him  finish  a  sponge  cake,  the  centre  of  which  had 
to  be  eaten  with  a  teaspoon,  declaring  it  was  delicious; 
that  eating  a  dry  sponge  cake  was  like  eating  dust ;  that  a 
sponge  cake  ought  to  be  a  trifle  syrupy  towards  the 
centre.  Afterwards  he  would  be  strangely  silent  and 
drink  brandy  out  of  a  wine-glass. 

''Call  these  knives  clean?"    It  would  be  Dan's  turn. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

Dan  would  draw  his  finger  across  one,  producing  chi- 
aro-oscuro. 

"Not  if  you  go  fingering  them.  Why  don't  you  leave 
them  alone  and  go  on  with  your  own  work?" 

"You've  just  wiped  them,  that's  all." 

"Well,  there  isn't  any  knife-powder." 

"Yes,  there  is." 

"Besides,  it  ruins  knives,  over-cleaning  them — takes  all 
the  edge  off.  We  shall  want  them  pretty  sharp  to  cut 
those  lemon  buns  of  yours." 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     335 

"Over-cleaning  them !  You  don't  take  any  pride  in  the 
place." 

"Good  Lord!    Don't  I  work  from  morning  to  night?" 

"You  lazy  young  devil !" 

"Makes  one  lazy,  your  cooking.  How  can  a  man  work 
when  he  is  suffering  all  day  long  from  indigestion  ?" 

But  Dan  would  not  be  content  until  I  had  found  the 
board  and  cleaned  the  knives  to  his  complete  satisfaction. 
Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  in  this  way  all  things  once  a 
week  were  set  in  order.  After  lunch  house-maid  and 
cook  would  vanish,  two  carefully  dressed  gentlemen  being 
left  alone  to  receive  their  guests. 

These  would  be  gathered  generally  from  among  Dan's 
journalistic  acquaintances  and  my  companions  of  the 
theatre.  Occasionally,  Minikin  and  Jarman  would  be  of 
the  number,  Mrs.  Peedles  even  once  or  twice  arriving 
breathless  on  our  landing.  Left  to  myself,  I  perhaps 
should  not  have  invited  them,  deeming  them  hardly  fitting 
company  to  mingle  with  our  other  visitors ;  but  Dan,  hav- 
ing once  been  introduced  to  them,  overrode  such  objec- 
tion. 

"My  dear  Lord  Chamberlain,"  Dan  would  reply,  "an 
ounce  of  originality  is  worth  a  ton  of  convention.  Little 
tin  ladies  and  gentlemen  all  made  to  pattern !  One  can 
find  them  everywhere.  Your  friends  would  be  an  acquisi- 
tion to  any  society." 

"But  are  they  quite  good  form?"  I  hinted. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we  will  do,"  replied  Dan.  "We'll 
forget  that  Mrs.  Peedles  keeps  a  lodging-house  in  Black- 
friars.  We  will  speak  of  her  as  our  friend,  'that  dear, 
quaint  old  creature.  Lady  P.'  A  title  that  is  an  oddity, 
whose  costume  always  suggests  the  wardrobe  of  a  provin- 
cial actress!  My  dear  Paul,  your  society  novelist  would 
make  a  fortune  out  of  such  a  character.  The  personages 
of  her  amusing  anecdotes,  instead  of  being  third-rate 
theatrical  folk,  shall  be  Earl  Blank  and  the  Baroness  de 
Dash.     The  editors  of  society  journals  shall  pay  me  a 


336  Paul  Kelver 

shilling  a  line  for  them.  Jarman — yes,  Jarman  shall  be 
the  son  of  a  South  American  millionaire.  Vulgar  ?  Non- 
sense! you  mean  racy.  Minikin — he  looks  much  more 
like  forty  than  twenty — he  shall  be  an  eminent  scientist. 
His  head  will  then  appear  the  natural  size ;  his  glass  eye, 
the  result  of  a  chemical  experiment,  a  touch  of  distinc- 
tion; his  uncompromising  rudeness,  a  lovable  character- 
istic. We  will  make  him  buy  a  yard  of  red  ribbon  and 
wear  it  across  his  shirt-front^  and  address  him  as  Herr 
Professor.  It  will  explain  slight  errors  of  English  gram- 
mar and  all  pecuHarities  of  accent.  They  shall  be  our 
lions.  You  leave  it  to  me.  We  will  invite  commonplace, 
middle-class  folk  to  meet  them." 

And  this,  to  my  terror  and  alarm,  Dan  persisted  in 
doing.  Jarman  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  joke  with 
gusto.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  our  guests,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  were  one  and  all,  I  am  confident,  de- 
ceived. The  more  he  swaggered,  the  more  he  boasted, 
the  more  he  talked  about  himself — and  it  was  a  failing  he 
was  prone  to — the  greater  was  his  success.  At  the  per- 
sistent endeavours  of  Dan's  journalistic  acquaintances  to 
excite  his  cupidity  by  visions  of  new  journals,  to  be  started 
with  a  mere  couple  of  thousand  pounds  and  by  the  inher- 
ent merit  of  their  ideas  to  command  at  once  a  circulation 
of  hundreds  of  thouands,  I  could  afford  to  laugh.  But 
watching  the  tremendous  efforts  of  my  actress  friends 
to  fascinate  him — luring  him  into  corners,  gazing  at  him 
with  languishing  eyes,  trotting  out  all  their  little  tricks  for 
his  exclusive  benefit,  quarrelling  about  him  among  them- 
selves— my  conscience  would  prick  me,  lest  our  jest 
should  end  in  a  contretemps.  Fortunately,  Jarman  him- 
self, was  a  gentleman  of  uncommon  sense,  or  my  fears 
might  have  been  realised.  I  should  have  been  sorry  my- 
self to  have  been  asked  to  remain  stone  under  the  bland- 
ishments of  girls  young  and  old,  of  women  handsome  and 
once,  no  doubt,  good  looking,  showered  upon  him  during 
that  winter.     But  Jarman,  as  I  think  I  have  explained, 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     337 

was  no  slave  to  female  charms.  He  enjoyed  his  good 
time  while  it  lasted,  and  eventually  married  the  eldest 
daughter  of  a  small  blacking  factory.  She  was  a  plain 
girl,  but  pleasant,  and  later  brought  to  Jarman  possession 
of  the  factory.  When  I  meet  him — he  is  now  stout  and 
rubicund — he  gives  me  the  idea  of  a  man  who  has  at- 
tained to  his  ideals. 

With  Minikin  we  had  more  trouble.  People  turned  up 
possessed  of  scientific  smattering.  We  had  to  explain  that 
the  Professor  never  talked  shop.  Others  were  owners  of 
unexpected  knowledge  of  German,  which  they  insisted 
upon  airing.  W^e  had  to  explain  that  the  Herr  Professor 
was  in  London  to  learn  English,  and  had  taken  a  vow  dur- 
ing his  residence  neither  to  speak  nor  listen  to  his  native 
tongue.  It  was  remarked  that  his  acquaintance  with 
colloquial  English  slang,  for  a  foreigner,  was  quite  un- 
usual. Occasionally  he  was  too  rude,  even  for  a  scientist, 
informing  ladies,  clamouring  to  know  how  he  liked  Eng- 
lish women,  that  he  didn't  like  them  silly ;  telling  one  gen- 
tleman, a  friend  of  Dan,  a  rather  important  man,  who 
once  asked  him,  referring  to  his  yard  of  ribbon,  what  he 
got  it  for,  that  he  got  it  for  fourpence.  We  had  to  ex- 
plain him  as  a  gentleman  who  had  been  soured  by  a  love 
disappointment.  The  ladies  forgave  him ;  the  gentlemen 
said  it  was  a  damned  lucky  thing  for  the  girl.  Altogether, 
Minikin  took  a  good  deal  of  explaining. 

Lady  Peedles,  our  guests  decided  among  themselves, 
must  be  the  widow  of  some  one  in  the  City  who  had  been 
knighted  in  a  crowd.  They  made  fun  of  her  behind  her 
back,  but  to  her  face  were  most  effusive.  "My  dear  Lady 
Peedles"  was  the  phrase  most  often  heard  in  our  rooms 
whenever  she  was  present.  At  the  theatre  "my  friend 
Lady  Peedles"  became  a  person  much  spoken  of — gener- 
ally in  loud  tones.  My  own  social  position  I  found  decid- 
edly improved  by  reason  of  her  ladyship's  evident  liking 
for  myself.  It  went  abroad  that  I  was  her  presumptive 
heir.    I  was  courted  as  a  gentleman  of  expectations. 


338  Paul  Kelver 

The  fishy-eyed  young  man  became  one  of  our  regu- 
lar guests.  Dan  won  his  heart  by  never  laughing  at 
him. 

"I  like  talking  to  you,"  said  the  fishy-eyed  young  man 
one  afternoon  to  Dan.  "You  don't  go  into  fits  of  laughter 
when  I  remark  that  it  has  been  a  fine  day ;  most  people  do. 
Of  course,  on  the  stage  I  don't  mind.  I  know  I  am  a 
funny  little  devil.  I  get  my  living  by  being  a  funny  little 
devil.  There  is  a  photograph  of  me  hanging  in  the  theatre 
lobby.  I  saw  a  workman  stop  and  look  at  it  the  other  day 
as  he  passed;  I  was  just  behind  him.     He  burst  into  a 

roar  of  laughter.     'Little !     He  makes  me  laugh  to 

look  at  him!'  he  cluttered  to  himself.  Well,  that's  all 
right;  I  want  the  man  in  the  gallery  to  think  me  funny, 
but  it  annoys  me  when  people  laugh  at  me  off  the  stage. 
If  I  am  out  to  dinner  anywhere  and  ask  somebody  to  pass 
the  mustard,  I  never  get  it ;  instead,  they  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. I  don't  want  people  to  laugh  at  me  when  I  am  hav- 
ing my  dinner.  I  want  my  dinner.  It  makes  me  very 
angry  sometimes." 

"I  know,"  agreed  Dan,  sympathetically.  "The  world 
never  grasps  the  fact  that  man  is  a  collection,  not  a  single 
exhibit.  I  remember  being  at  a  house  once  where  the  chief 
guest  happened  to  be  a  great  Hebrew  scholar.  One  tea 
time,  a  Miss  Henman,  passing  the  butter  to  some  one  in  a 
hurry,  let  it  slip  out  of  her  hand.  'Why  is  Miss  Henman 
like  a  caterpillar  ?'  asked  our  learned  guest  in  a  sepulchral 
voice.  Nobody  appeared  to  know.  'Because  she  makes 
the  butter  fly.'  It  never  occurred  to  any  one  of  us  that 
the  Doctor  could  possibly  joke.  There  was  dead  silence 
for  about  a  minute.  Then  our  hostess,  looking  grave,  re- 
marked :    'Oh,  do  you  really  think  so  ?'  " 

"If  I  were  to  enter  a  room  full  of  people,"  said  the 
fishy-eyed  young  man,  "and  tell  them  that  my  mother 
had  been  run  over  by  an  omnibus,  they  would  think  it  the 
funniest  story  they  had  heard  in  years." 

He  was  playing  a  principal  part  now  in  the  opera,  and 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest      339 

it  was  he  undoubtedly  who  was  drawing  the  house.  But 
he  was  not  happy. 

''I  am  not  a  comic  actor,  really/'  he  explained.  "I  could 
play  Romeo,  so  far  as  feeling  is  concerned,  and  play  it 
damned  well.  There  is  a  fine  vein  of  poetry  in  me.  But 
of  course  it's  no  good  to  me  with  this  face  of  mine." 

''But  are  you  not  sinning  your  mercies,  you  fellows?" 
Dan  replied.  "There  is  young  Kelver  here.  At  school 
it  was  always  his  trouble  that  he  could  give  us  a  good 
time  and  make  us  laugh,  which  nobody  else  in  the  whole 
school  could  do.  His  ambition  was  to  kick  a  ball  as  well 
as  a  hundred  other  fellows  could  kick  it.  He  could  tell 
us  a  good  story  now  if  he  would  only  write  what  the  Al- 
mighty intended  him  to  write,  instead  of  gloomy  rigma- 
roles about  suffering  Princesses  in  Welsh  caves.  I  don't 
say  it's  bad,  but  a  hundred  others  could  write  the  same 
sort  of  thing  better." 

"Can't  you  understand,"  answered  the  little  man ;  "the 
poorest  tragedian  that  ever  lived  never  wished  himself 
the  best  of  low  comedians.  The  court  fool  had  an  excel- 
lent salary,  no  doubt;  and,  likely  enough,  had  got  two- 
thirds  of  all  the  brain  there  was  in  the  palace.  But  not  a 
wooden-headed  man-at-arms  but  looked  down  upon  him. 
Every  gallery  boy  who  pays  a  shilling  to  laugh  at  me  re- 
gards himself  as  my  intellectual  superior;  while  to  a 
fourth-rate  spouter  of  blank  verse  he  looks  up  in  admira- 
tion." 

"Does  it  so  very  much  matter,"  suggested  Dan,  "how 
the  wooden-headed  man-at-arms  or  the  shilling  gallery 
boy  happens  to  regard  you  ?" 

"Yes,  it  does,"  retorted  Goggles,  "because  we  happen 
to  agree  with  them.  If  I  could  earn  five  pounds  a 
week  as  juvenile  lead,  I  would  never  play  a  comic  part 
again." 

"There  I  cannot  follow  you,"  returned  Dan.  "I  can 
understand  the  artist  who  would  rather  be  the  man  of 
action,  the  poet  who  would  rather  be  the  statesman  or  the 


34^  Paul  Kelver 

warrior;  though  personally  my  sympathies  are  precisely 
the  other  way — with  Wolfe  who  thought  it  a  more  glori- 
ous work,  the  writing  of  a  great  poem,  than  the  burning 
of  so  many  cities  and  the  killing  of  so  many  men.  We  all 
serve  the  community.  It  is  difficult,  looking  at  the  matter 
from  the  inside,  to  say  who  serves  it  best.  Some  feed  it, 
some  clothe  it.  The  churchman  and  the  policeman  be- 
tween them  look  after  its  morals,  keep  it  in  order.  The 
doctor  mends  it  when  it  injures  itself;  the  lawyer  helps  it 
to  quarrel,  the  soldier  teaches  it  to  fight.  We  Bohemians 
amuse  it,  instruct  it.  We  can  argue  that  we  are  the  most 
important.  The  others  cater  for  its  body,  we  for  its  mind. 
But  their  work  is  more  showy  than  ours  and  attracts  more 
attention ;  and  to  attract  attention  is  the  aim  and  object  of 
most  of  us.  But  for  Bohemians  to  worry  among  them- 
selves which  is  the  greatest,  is  utterly  without  reason.  The 
story-teller,  the  musician,  the  artist,  the  clown,  we  are 
members  of  a  sharing  troupe;  one,  with  the  ambition  of 
the  fat  boy  in  Pickwick,  makes  the  people's  flesh  creep; 
another  makes  them  hold  their  sides  with  laughter.  The 
tragedian,  soliloquising  on  his  crimes,  shows  us  how 
wicked  we  are  ;  you,  looking  at  a  pair  of  lovers  from  under 
a  scratch  wig,  show  us  how  ridiculous  we  are.  Both 
lessons  are  necessary :  who  shall  say  which  is  the  superior 
teacher  ?" 

"Ah,  I  am  not  a  philosopher,"  replied  the  little  man, 
with  a  sigh. 

"Ah,"  returned  Dan,  with  another,  "and  I  am  not  a 
comic  actor  on  my  way  to  a  salary  of  a  hundred  a  week. 
We  all  of  us  want  the  other  boy's  cake." 

The  O'Kelly  was  another  frequent  visitor  of  ours.  The 
attic  in  Belsize  Square  had  been  closed.  In  vain  had  the 
O'Kelly  wafted  incense,  burned  pastilles  and  sprinkled 
eau-de-Cologne.  In  vain  had  he  talked  of  rats,  hinted  at 
drains. 

"A  wonderful  woman,"  groaned  the  O'Kelly  in  tones 
of  sorrowful  admiration.    "There's  no  deceiving  her." 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     341 

"But  why  submit?"  was  our  natural  argument.  "Why 
not  say  you  are  going  to  smoke,  and  do  it?" 

"It's  her  theory,  me  boy,"  explained  the  O'Kelly,  "that 
the  home  should  be  kept  pure — a  sort  of  a  temple,  ye 
know.  She's  convinced  that  in  time  it  is  bound  to  exer- 
cise an  influence  upon  me.  It's  a  beautiful  idea,  when  ye 
come  to  think  of  it," 

Meanwhile,  in  the  rooms  of  half-a-dozen  sinful  men  the 
O'Kelly  kept  his  own  particular  pipe,  together  with  his 
own  particular  smoking  mixture ;  and  one  such  pipe  and 
one  such  tobacco  jar  stood  always  on  our  mantelpiece. 

In  the  spring  the  forces  of  temptation  raged  round 
that  feeble  but  most  excellently  intentioned  citadel,  the 
O'Kelly's  conscience.  The  Signora  had  returned  to  Eng- 
land, was  performing  then  at  Ashley's  Theatre,  The 
O'Kelly  would  remain  under  long  spells  of  silence,  puff- 
ing vigorously  at  his  pipe.  Or  would  fortify  himself 
with  paeans  in  praise  of  Mrs.  O'Kelly. 

"If  anything  could  ever  make  a  model  man  of  me" — he 
spoke  in  the  tones  of  one  whose  doubts  are  stronger  than 
his  hopes — "it  would  be  the  example  of  that  woman," 

It  was  one  Saturday  afternoon,  I  had  just  returned 
from  the  matinee, 

"I  don't  believe,"  continued  the  O'Kelly,  "I  don't  really 
believe  she  has  ever  done  one  single  thing  she  oughtn't  to, 
or  left  undone  one  single  thing  she  ought,  in  the  whole 
course  of  her  life." 

"Maybe  she  has,  and  you  don't  know  of  it,"  I  suggest- 
ed, perceiving  the  idea  might  comfort  him, 

"I  wish  I  could  think  so/'  returned  the  O'Kelly,  "I 
don't  mean  anything  really  wrong,"  he  corrected  himself 
quickly,  "but  something  just  a  little  wrong.  I  feel — I 
really  feel  I  should  like  her  better  if  she  had." 

"Not  that  I  mean  I  don't  like  her  as  it  is,  ye  under- 
stand," corrected  himself  the  O'Kelly  a  second  time.  "I 
respect  that  woman — I  cannot  tell  ye,  me  boy,  how  much  I 
respect  her.    Ye  don't  know  her.    There  was  one  morn- 


342  Paul  Kelver 

ing,  about  a  month  ago.  That  woman — she's  down  at 
six  every  morning,  summer  and  winter ;  we  have  prayers 
at  half-past.  I  was  a  trifle  late  meself :  it  was  never  me 
strong  point,  as  ye  know,  early  rising.  Seven  o'clock 
struck ;  she  didn't  appear,  and  I  thought  she  had  overslept 
herself.  I  won't  say  I  didn't  feel  pleased  for  the  mo- 
ment ;  it  was  an  unworthy  sentiment,  but  I  almost  wished 
she  had.  I  ran  up  to  her  room.  The  door  was  open,  the 
bedclothes  folded  down  as  she  always  leaves  them.  She 
came  in  five  minutes  later.  She  had  got  up  at  four  that 
morning  to  welcome  a  troupe  of  native  missionaries  from 
East  Africa  on  their  arrival  at  Waterloo  Station.  She's 
a  saint,  that  woman ;  I  am  not  worthy  of  her." 

*'I  shouldn't  dwell  too  much  on  that  phase  of  the  sub- 
ject," I  suggested. 

"I  can't  help  it,  me  boy,"  replied  the  O'Kelly.  "I  feel 
I  am  not." 

"I  don't  for  a  moment  say  you  are,"  I  returned ;  "'but  I 
shouldn't  harp  upon  the  idea.  I  don't  think  it  good  for 
you." 

"I  never  will  be,"  he  persisted  gloomily,  "never !" 

Evidently  he  was  started  on  a  dangerous  train  of  re- 
flection. With  the  idea  of  luring  him  away  from  it,  I  led 
the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  champagne. 

"Most  people  like  it  dry,"  admitted  the  O'Kelly.  "Me- 
self, I  have  always  preferred  it  with  just  a  suggestion  of 
fruitiness." 

"There  was  a  champagne,"  I  said,  "you  used  to  be 
rather  fond  of  when  we — years  ago." 

"I  think  I  know  the  one  ye  mean,"  said  the  O'Kelly. 
"It  wasn't  at  all  bad,  considering  the  price." 

"You  don't  happen  to  remember  where  you  got  it?"  I 
asked. 

"It  was  in  Bridge  Street,"  remembered  the  O'Kelly, 
"not  so  very  far  from  the  Circus." 

"It  is  a  pleasant  evening,"  I  remarked;  "let  us  take  a 
walk." 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest      343 

We  found  the  place,  half  wine-shop,  half  office. 

*'Just  the  same,"  commented  the  O'Kelly  as  we  pushed 
open  the  door  and  entered.    "Not  altered  a  bit." 

As  in  all  probability  barely  twelve  months  had  elapsed 
since  his  last  visit,  the  fact  in  itself  was  not  surprising. 
Clearly  the  O'Kelly  had  been  calculating  time  rather  by 
sensation.  I  ordered  a  bottle,  and  we  sat  down.  Myself, 
being  prejudiced  against  the  brand,  I  called  for  a  glass  of 
claret.  The  O'Kelly  finished  the  bottle.  I  was  glad  to 
notice  my  ruse  had  been  successful.  The  virtue  of  that 
wine  had  not  departed  from  it.  With  every  glass  the 
O'Kelly  became  morally  more  elevated.  He  left  the  place, 
determined  that  he  would  be  worthy  of  Mrs.  O'Kelly. 
Walking  down  the  Embankment,  he  asserted  his  determi- 
nation of  buying  an  alarm-clock  that  very  evening.  At  the 
corner  of  Westminster  Bridge  he  became  suddenly  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  thoughts.  Looking  to  discover  the 
cause  of  his  silence,  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  resting  on  a 
poster  representing  a  charming  lady  standing  on  one  leg 
upon  a  wire ;  below  her — at  some  distance — appeared  the 
peaks  of  mountains ;  the  artist  had  even  caught  the  like- 
ness. I  cursed  the  luck  that  had  directed  our  footsteps, 
but  the  next  moment,  lacking  experience,  was  inclined  to 
be  reassured. 

"Me  dear  Paul,"  said  the  O'Kelly— he  laid  a  fatherly 
hand  upon  my  shoulder — "there  are  fair-faced,  laughing- 
women — sweet  creatures,  that  ye  want  to  put  yer  arm 
around  and  dance  with."  He  shook  his  head  disapprov- 
ingly. "There  are  the  sainted  women,  who  lead  us  up, 
Paul — up,  always  up." 

A  look,  such  as  the  young  man  with  the  banner  might 
have  borne  with  him  to  the  fields  of  snow  and  ice,  suf- 
fused the  O'Kelly's  handsome  face.  Without  another 
word  he  crossed  the  road  and  entered  an  American  store, 
where  for  six-and-elevenpence  he  purchased  an  alarm- 
clock  the  man  assured  us  would  awake  an  Egyptian 
mummy.    With  this  in  his  hand  he  waved  me  a  good-bye. 


344  P^^l  Kelver 

and  jumped  upon  a  Hampstead  'bus,  and  alone  I  strolled 
on  to  the  theatre. 

Hal  returned  a  little  after  Christmas  and  started  himself 
in  chambers  in  the  City.  It  was  the  nearest  he  dared 
venture,  so  he  said,  to  civilisation. 

''I'd  be  no  good  in  the  West  End,"  he  explained.  "For 
a  season  I  might  attract  as  an  eccentricity,  but  your  swells 
would  never  stand  me  for  longer — no  more  would  any 
respectable  folk,  anywhere:  we  don't  get  on  together.  I 
commenced  at  Richmond.  It  was  a  fashionable  suburb 
then,  and  I  thought  I  was  going  to  do  wonders.  I  had 
everything  in  my  favour,  except  myself.  I  do  know  my 
work,  nobody  can  deny  that  of  me.  My  father  spent 
every  penny  he  had,  poor  gentleman,  in  buying  me  an  old- 
established  practice :  fine  house,  carriage  and  pair,  white- 
haired  butler — everything  correct,  except  myself.  It  was 
of  no  use.  I  can  hold  myself  in  for  a  month  or  two ;  then 
I  break  out,  the  old  original  savage  that  I  am  under  my 
frock  coat.  I  feel  I  must  run  amuck,  stabbing,  hacking 
at  the  prim,  smiling  Lies  mincing  round  about  me.  I 
can  fool  a  silly  woman  for  half-a-dozen  visits ;  bow  and 
rub  my  hands,  purr  round  her  sympathetically.  All  the 
while  I  am  longing  to  tell  her  the  truth : 

"  'Go  home.  Wash  your  face ;  don't  block  up  the  pores 
of  your  skin  with  paint.  Let  out  your  corsets.  You  are 
thirty- three  round  the  abdomen  if  you  are  an  inch:  how 
can  you  expect  your  digestion  to  do  its  work  when  you're 
squeezing  it  into  twenty-one?  Give  up  gadding  about 
half  your  day  and  most  of  your  night ;  you  are  old  enough 
to  have  done  with  that  sort  of  thing.  Let  the  children 
come,  and  suckle  them  yourself.  You'll  be  all  the  better 
for  them.  Don't  loll  in  bed  all  the  morning.  Get  up  like 
a  decent  animal  and  do  something  for  your  living.  Use 
your  brain,  what  there  is  of  it,  and  your  body.  At  that 
price  you  can  have  health  to-morrow,  and  at  no  other.  I 
can  do  nothing  for  you.' 

"And  sooner  or  later  I  blurt  it  out."    He  laughed  his 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     345 

great  roar.  ''Lord!  you  should  see  the  real  face  coming 
out  of  the  simpering  mask. 

"Pompous  old  fools,  strutting  into  me  like  turkey-cocks ! 
By  Jove,  it  was  worth  it !  They  would  dribble  out,  look- 
ing half  their  proper  size  after  I  had  done  telling  them 
what  was  the  matter  with  them. 

"  'Do  you  want  to  know  what  you  are  really  suffering 
from  ?'  I  would  shout  at  them,  when  I  could  contain  my- 
self no  longer.  'Gluttony,  my  dear  sir;  gluttony  and 
drunkenness,  and  over-indulgence  in  other  vices  that  shall 
be  nameless.  Live  like  a  man ;  get  a  little  self-respect 
from  somewhere ;  give  up  being  an  ape.  Treat  your  body 
properly  and  it  will  treat  you  properly.  That's  the  only 
prescription  that  will  do  you  any  good.'  " 

He  laughed  again.  "  'Tell  the  truth,  you  shame  the 
Devil.'  But  the  Devil  replies  by  starving  you.  It's  a  fair- 
ly effective  retort.  I  am  not  the  stuff  successful  family 
physicians  are  made  of.  In  the  City  I  may  manage  to  rub 
along.  One  doesn't  see  so  much  of  one's  patients;  they 
come  and  go.  Clerks  and  warehousemen  my  practice  will 
be  among  chiefly.  The  poor  man  does  not  so  much  mind 
being  told  the  truth  about  himself ;  it  is  a  blessing  to  which 
he  is  accustomed." 

We  spoke  but  once  of  Barbara.  A  photograph  of  her 
in  her  bride's  dress  stood  upon  my  desk.  Occasionally, 
first  fitting  the  room  for  the  ceremony,  sweeping  away 
all  impurity  even  from  under  the  mats,  and  dressing  my- 
self with  care,  I  would  centre  it  amid  flowers,  and  kneel- 
ing, kiss  her  hand  where  it  rested  on  the  back  of  the  top- 
heavy  looking  chair  without  which  no  photographic 
studio  is  complete. 

One  day  he  took  it  up,  and  looked  at  it  long  and  hard. 

"The  forehead  denotes  intellectuality;  the  eyes  tender- 
ness and  courage.  The  lower  part  of  the  face,  on  the 
other  hand,  suggests  a  good  deal  of  animalism :  the  finely 
cut  nostrils  show  egotism — another  word  for  selfishness ; 
the  nose  itself,  vanity ;  the  lips,  sensuousness  and  love  of 


346  Paul  Kelver 

luxury.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  woman  she  really  is."  He 
laid  the  photograph  back  upon  the  desk. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  so  firm  a  believer  in  Lavater," 
I  said. 

"Only  when  he  agrees  with  what  I  know,"  he  answered. 
"Have  I  not  described  her  rightly?" 

"I  do  not  care  to  discuss  her  in  that  vein,"  I  replied, 
feeling  the  blood  mounting  to  my  cheeks. 

"Too  sacred  a  subject?"  he  laughed.  "It  is  the  one  in- 
gredient of  manhood  I  lack,  ideality — an  unfortunate  de- 
ficiency for  me.  I  must  probe,  analyse,  dissect,  see  the 
thing  as  it  really  is,  know  it  for  what  it  is." 

"Well,  she  is  the  Countess  Huescar  now,"  I  said.  "For 
God's  sake,  leave  her  alone." 

He  turned  to  me  with  the  snarl  of  a  beast.  "How  do 
you  know  she  is  the  Countess  Huescar?  Is  it  a  special 
breed  of  woman  made  on  purpose?  How  do  you  know 
she  isn't  my  wife — ^brain  and  heart,  flesh  and  blood,  mine  ? 
If  she  was,  do  you  think  I  should  give  her  up  because  some 
fool  has  stuck  his  label  on  her  ?" 

I  felt  the  anger  burning  in  my  eyes.  "Yours,  his !  She 
is  no  man's  property.    She  is  herself,"  I  cried. 

The  wrinkles  round  his  nose  and  mouth  smoothed  them- 
selves out.  "You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  sneered.  "As 
you  say,  she  is  the  Countess  Huescar.  Can  you  imagine 
her  as  Mrs.  Doctor  Washburn?  I  can't."  He  took  her 
photograph  in  his  hand  again.  "The  lower  part  of  the 
face  is  the  true  index  to  the  character.  It  shows  the  ani- 
mal, and  it  is  the  animal  that  rules.  The  soul,  the  intel- 
lect, it  comes  and  goes :  the  animal  remains  always.  Sens- 
uousness,  love  of  luxury,  vanity,  those  are  the  strings  to 
which  she  dances.  To  be  a  Countess  is  of  more  impor- 
tance to  her  than  to  be  a  woman.  She  is  his,  not  mine. 
Let  him  keep  her." 

"You  do  not  know  her,"  I  answered;  "you  never 
have.  You  listen  to  what  she  says.  She  does  not  know 
herself." 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     347 

He  looked  at  me  queerly.  "What  do  you  think  her  to 
be  ?"  he  asked  me.  "A  true  woman,  not  the  shallow  thing 
she  seems?" 

"A  true  woman,"  I  persisted  stoutly,  "that  you  have  not 
eyes  enough  to  see." 

"You  little  fool/'  he  muttered,  with  the  same  queer 
look — "you  little  fool.  But  let  us  hope  you  are  wrong, 
Paul.     Let  us  hope,  for  her  sake,  you  are  wrong." 

It  w^as  at  one  of  Deleglise's  Sunday  suppers  that  I  first 
met  Urban  Vane.  The  position,  nor  even  the  character,  I 
fear  it  must  be  confessed,  of  his  guests  was  never  en- 
quired into  by  old  Deleglise.  A  simple-minded,  kindly 
old  fellow  himself,  it  was  his  fate  to  be  occasionally  sur- 
prised and  grieved  at  the  discovery  that  even  the  most  en- 
tertaining of  supper  companions  could  fall  short  of  the 
highest  standard  of  conventional  morality. 

"Dear,  dear  me!"  he  would  complain,  pacing  up  and 
down  his  studio  with  puzzled  visage.  "The  last  man  in 
the  world  of  whom  I  should  have  expected  to  hear  it. 
So  original  in  all  his  ideas.    Are  you  quite  sure  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it." 

"I  can't  believe  it !  I  really  can't  beHeve  it !  One  of  the 
most  amusing  men  I  ever  met !" 

I  remember  a  well-known  artist  one  evening  telling  us 
with  much  sense  of  humour  how  he  had  just  completed 
the  sale  of  an  old  Spanish  cabinet  to  two  distinct  and 
separate  purchasers. 

"I  sold  it  first,"  recounted  the  little  gentleman  with 
glee,  "to  old  Jong,  the  dealer.  He  has  been  worrying  me 
about  it  for  the  last  three  months,  and  on  Saturday  after- 
noon, hearing  that  I  was  clearing  out  and  going  abroad, 
he  came  round  again.  'Well,  I  am  not  sure  I  am  in  a  posi- 
tion to  sell  it,'  I  told  him.  'Who'll  know?'  he  asked. 
'They  are  not  in,  are  they?'  'Not  yet,'  I  answered,  'but  I 
expect  they  will  be  some  time  on  Monday.'  'Tell  your 
man  to  open  the  door  to  me  at  eight  o'clock  on  Monday 
morning/  he  replied,  'we'll  have  it  away  without  any  fuss. 


348  Paul  Kelver 

There  needn't  be  any  receipt.  Fm  lending  you  a  hundred 
pounds,  in  cash/  I  worked  him  up  to  a  hundred  and 
twenty,  and  he  paid  me.  Upon  my  word,  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  it,  if  he  hadn't  put  the  idea  into  my  head. 
But  turning  round  at  the  door :  'You  won't  go  and  sell  it 
to  some  one  else,'  he  suggested,  'between  now  and  Mon- 
day?' It  serves  him  right  for  his  damned  impertinence. 
'Send  and  take  it  away  to-day  if  you  are  at  all  nervous,'  I 
told  him.  He  looked  at  the  thing,  it  is  about  twelve  feet 
high  altogether.  'I  would  if  I  could  get  a  cart,'  he  mut- 
tered. Then  an  idea  struck  him.  'Does  the  top  come  off  ?' 
'See  for  yourself,'  I  answered ;  'it's  your  cabinet,  not  mine.' 
I  was  feeling  rather  annoyed  with  him.  He  examined  it. 
'That's  all  right,'  he  said ;  'merely  a  couple  of  screws.  I'll 
take  the  top  with  me  now  on  my  cab.'  He  got  a  man  in, 
and  they  took  the  upper  cupboard  away,  leaving  me  the 
bottom.  Two  hours  later  old  Sir  George  called  to  see  me 
about  his  wife's  portrait.  The  first  thing  he  set  eyes  on 
was  the  remains  of  the  cabinet :  he  had  always  admired  it. 
'Hallo,'  he  asked,  'are  you  breaking  up  the  studio  literally  ? 
What  have  you  done  with  the  other  half?'  'I've  sent  it 
round  to  Jong's — '  He  didn't  give  me  time  to  finish.  'Save 
Jong's  commission  and  sell  it  to  me  direct,'  he  said.  'We 
won't  argue  about  the  price  and  I'll  pay  you  in  cash.' 

"Well,  if  Providence  comes  forward  and  insists  on 
taking  charge  of  a  man,  it  is  hardly  good  manners  to 
flout  her.  Besides,  his  wife's  portrait  is  worth  twice  as 
much  as  he  is  paying  for  it.  He  handed  me  over  the 
money  in  notes.  'Things  not  going  quite  smoothly  with 
you  just  at  the  moment?'  he  asked  me.  'Oh,  about  the 
same  as  usual,'  I  told  him.  'You  won't  be  offended  at  my 
taking  it  away  with  me  this  evening?'  he  asked.  'Not  in 
the  least,'  I  answered ;  'you'll  get  it  on  the  top  of  a  four- 
wheeled  cab.'  We  called  in  a  couple  of  men,  and  I  helped 
them  down  with  it,  and  confoundedly  heavy  it  was.  *I 
shall  send  round  to  Jong's  for  the  other  half  on  Monday 
morning,'  he  said,  speaking  with  his  head  through  the 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest      349 

cab  window,  'and  explain  it  to  him.'  'Do,'  I  answered; 
'he'll  understand.' 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  going  away  so  early  in  the  morning," 
concluded  the  little  gentleman.  "I'd  give  back  Jong  ten 
per  cent,  of  his  money  to  see  his  face  when  he  enters  the 
studio." 

Everybody  laughed ;  but  after  the  little  gentleman  was 
gone,  the  subject  cropped  up  again. 

"If  I  wake  sufficiently  early,"  remarked  one,  "I  shall 
find  an  excuse  to  look  in  myself  at  eight  o'clock.  Jong's 
face  will  certainly  be  worth  seeing." 

"Rather  rough  both  on  him  and  Sir  George,"  observed 
another. 

"Oh,  he  hasn't  really  done  anything  of  the  kind," 
chimed  in  old  Deleglise  in  his  rich,  sweet  voice.  "He 
made  that  all  up.    It's  just  his  fun;  he's  full  of  humour." 

"I  am  inclined  to  think  that  would  be  his  idea  of  a 
joke,"  asserted  the  first  speaker. 

Old  DelegHse  would  not  hear  of  it ;  but  a  week  or  two 
later  I  noticed  an  addition  to  old  Deleglise's  studio  furni- 
ture in  the  shape  of  a  handsome  old  carved  cabinet  twelve 
feet  high. 

"He  really  had  done  it,"  explained  old  Deleglise,  speak- 
ing in  a  whisper,  though  only  he  and  I  were  present.  "Of 
course,  it  was  only  his  fun ;  but  it  might  have  been  misun- 
derstood. I  thought  it  better  to  put  the  thing  straight. 
I  shall  get  the  money  back  from  him  when  he  returns.  A 
most  amusing  little  man !" 

Old  DelegHse  possessed  a  house  in  Gower  Street  which 
fell  vacant.  One  of  his  guests,  a  writer  of  poetical  drama, 
was  a  man  who  three  months  after  he  had  earned  a  thou- 
sand pounds  never  had  a  penny  with  which  to  bless  him- 
self. They  are  dying  out,  these  careless,  good-natured, 
conscienceless  Bohemians ;  but  quarter  of  a  century  ago 
they  still  lingered  in  Alsatian  London.  Turned  out  of  his 
lodgings  by  a  Philistine  landlord,  his  sole  possession  in 
the  wide  world,  two  acts  of  a  drama,  for  which  he  had 


350  Paul  Kelver 

already  been  paid,  the  problem  of  his  future,  though  it 
troubled  him  but  little,  became  acute  to  his  friends.  Old 
Deleglise,  treating  the  matter  as  a  joke,  pretending  not 
to  know  who  was  the  landlord,  suggested  he  should  apply 
to  the  agents  for  position  as  caretaker.  Some  furniture 
was  found  for  him,  and  the  empty  house  in  Gower  Street 
became  his  shelter.  The  immediate  present  thus  provided 
for,  kindly  old  Deleglise  worried  himself  a  good  deal  con- 
cerning what  would  become  of  his  friend  when  the  house 
was  let.  There  appeared  to  be  no  need  for  worry.  Weeks, 
months  went  by.  Applications  were  received  by  the  agents 
in  fair  number,  view^  cards  signed  by  the  dozen ;  but  pros- 
pective tenants  were  never  seen  again.  One  Sunday  even- 
ing our  poet,  warmed  by  old  Deleglise's  Burgundy,  for- 
getful whose  recommendation  had  secured  him  the  lowly 
but  timely  appointment,  himself  revealed  the  secret. 

"Most  convenient  place  IVe  got,"  so  he  told  old  Dele- 
ghse.  "Whole  house  to  myself.  I  wander  about ;  it  just 
suits  me." 

"Fm  glad  to  hear  that,"  murmured  old  Deleglise. 

"Come  and  see  me,  and  I'll  cook  you  a  chop,"  continued 
the  other.  "I've  had  the  kitchen  range  brought  up  into 
the  back  drawing-room ;  saves  going  up  and  down  stairs." 

"The  devil  you  have!"  growled  old  DelegHse.  "What 
do  you  think  the  owner  of  the  house  will  say?" 

"Haven't  the  least  idea  who  the  poor  old  duffer  is 
myself.  They've  put  me  in  as  caretaker — an  excellent  ar- 
rangement :  avoids  all  argument  about  rent." 

"Afraid  it  will  soon  come  to  an  end,  that  excellent  ar- 
rangement ;"  remarked  old  Deleglise,  drily. 

"Why?    Why  should  it?" 

"A  house  in  Gower  Street  oughtn't  to  remain  vacant 
long." 

"This  one  will." 

"You  might  tell  me,"  asked  old  Deleglise,  with  a  grim 
smile ;  "how  do  you  manage  it  ?  What  happens  when  peo- 
ple come  to  look  over  the  house — don't  you  let  them  in  ?" 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     351 

''I  tried  that  at  first,"  explained  the  poet,  "but  they 
would  go  on  knocking,  and  boys  and  policemen  passing 
would  stop  and  help  them.  It  got  to  be  a  nuisance;  so 
now  I  have  them  in,  and  get  the  thing  over.  I  show  them 
the  room  where  the  murder  was  committed.  If  it's  a  ner- 
vous-looking party,  I  let  them  off  with  a  brief  summary. 
If  that  doesn't  do,  I  go  into  details  and  show  them  the 
blood-spots  on  the  floor.  It's  an  interesting  story  of  the 
gruesome  order.  Come  round  one  morning  and  I'll  tell 
it  to  you.  I'm  rather  proud  of  it.  With  the  blinds  down 
and  a  clock  in  the  next  room  that  ticks  loudly,  it  goes 
well." 

Yet  this  was  a  man  who,  were  the  merest  acquaintance 
to  call  upon  him  and  ask  for  his  assistance,  would  at  once 
take  him  by  the  arm  and  lead  him  upstairs.  All  notes  and 
cheques  that  came  into  his  hands  he  changed  at  once  into 
gold.  Into  some  attic  half  filled  with  lumber  he  would 
fling  it  by  the  handful;  then,  locking  the  door,  leave  it 
there.  On  their  hands  and  knees  he  and  his  friends,  when 
they  wanted  any,  would  grovel  for  it,  poking  into  corners, 
hunting  under  boxes,  groping  among  broken  furniture, 
feeling  between  cracks  and  crevices.  Nothing  gave  him 
greater  delight  than  an  expedition  of  this  nature  to  what 
he  termed  his  gold-field ;  it  had  for  him,  as  he  would  ex- 
plain, all  the  excitements  of  mining  without  the  inconveni- 
ence and  the  distance.  He  never  knew  how  much  was 
there.  For  a  certain  period  a  pocketful  could  be  picked 
up  in  five  minutes.  Then  he  would  entertain  a  dozen  men 
at  one  of  the  best  restaurants  in  London,  tip  cabmen  and 
waiters  with  half-sovereigns,  shower  half-crowns  as  he 
w^alked  through  the  streets,  lend  or  give  to  anybody  for 
the  asking.  Later,  half-an-hour's  dusty  search  would  be 
rewarded  with  a  single  coin.  It  made  no  difference  to 
him;  he  would  dine  in  Soho  for  eighteenpence,  smoke 
shag,  and  run  into  debt. 

The  red-haired  man,  to  whom  Deleglise  had  introduced 
me  on  the  day  of  my  first  meeting  with  the  Lady  of  the 


352  Paul  Kelver 

train,  was  another  of  his  most  constant  visitors.  It  flat- 
tered my  vanity  that  the  red-haired  man,  whose  name  was 
famous  throughout  Europe  and  America,  should  conde- 
scend to  confide  to  me — as  he  did  and  at  some  length — the 
deepest  secrets  of  his  bosom.  Awed — at  all  events  at  first 
— I  would  sit  and  listen  while  by  the  hour  he  would  talk 
to  me  in  corners,  telling  me  of  the  women  he  had  loved. 
They  formed  a  somewhat  large  collection.  Julias,  Marias, 
Janets,  even  Janes — he  had  madly  worshipped,  deliriously 
adored  so  many  it  grew  bewildering.  With  a  far-away 
look  in  his  eyes,  pain  trembling  through  each  note  of  his 
musical,  soft  voice,  he  would  with  bitter  jest,  with  passion- 
ate outburst,  recount  how  he  had  sobbed  beneath  the  stars 
for  love  of  Isabel,  bitten  his  own  flesh  in  frenzied  yearning 
for  Lenore.  He  appeared  from  his  own  account — if  in 
connection  with  a  theme  so  poetical  I  may  be  allowed  a 
commonplace  expression — to  have  had  no  luck  with  any 
of  them.  Of  the  remainder,  an  appreciable  percentage 
had  been  mere  passing  visions,  seen  at  a  distance  in  the 
dawn,  at  twilight — generally  speaking,  when  the  light 
must  have  been  uncertain.  Never  again,  though  he  had 
wandered  in  the  neighbourhood  for  months,  had  he  suc- 
ceeded in  meeting  them.  It  would  occur  to  me  that  en- 
quiries among  the  neighbours,  applications  to  the  local 
police,  might  possibly  have  been  eflicacious;  but  to  have 
broken  in  upon  his  exalted  mood  with  such  suggestions 
would  have  demanded  more  nerve  than  at  the  time  I  pos- 
sessed.   In  consequence,  my  thoughts  I  kept  to  myself. 

"My  God,  boy!"  he  would  conclude,  "may  you  never 
love  as  I  loved  that  woman  Miriam" — or  Henrietta,  or 
Irene,  as  the  case  might  be. 

For  my  sympathetic  attitude  towards  tlTe  red-haired 
man  I  received  one  evening  commendation  from  old  Dele- 
glise. 

"Good  boy,'*  said  old  Deleglise,  laying  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder.  We  were  standing  in  the  passage.  We  had 
just  shaken  hands  with  the  red-haired  man,  who,  as  usual, 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest      353 

had  been  the  last  to  leave.  "None  of  the  others  will  listen 
to  him.  He  used  to  stop  and  confide  it  all  to  me  after 
everybody  else  had  gone.  Sometimes  I  have  dropped 
asleep,  to  wake  an  hour  later  and  find  him  still  talking. 
He  gets  it  over  early  now.     Good  boy !" 

Soon  I  learnt  it  was  characteristic  of  the  artist  to  be 
willing — nay,  anxious,  to  confide  his  private  affairs  to  any 
one  and  every  one  who  would  only  listen.  Another  char- 
acteristic appeared  to  be  determination  not  to  listen  to 
anybody  else's.  As  attentive  recipient  of  other  people's 
troubles  and  emotions  I  was  subjected  to  practically  no 
competition  whatever.  One  gentleman,  a  leading  actor 
of  that  day,  I  remember,  immediately  took  me  aside  on 
my  being  introduced  to  him,  and  consulted  me  as  to  his 
best  course  of  procedure  under  the  extremely  painful  con- 
ditions that  had  lately  arisen  between  himself  and  his  wife. 
We  discussed  the  unfortunate  position  at  some  length, 
and  I  did  my  best  to  counsel  fairly  and  impartially. 

*'I  wish  you  would  lunch  with  me  at  White's  to-mor- 
row," he  said.  ''We  can  talk  it  over  quietly.  Say  half- 
past  one.    By  the  bye,  I  didn't  catch  your  name." 

I  spelt  it  to  him :  he  wrote  the  appointment  down  on  his 
shirt-cuff.  I  went  to  White's  the  next  day  and  waited  an 
hour,  but  he  did  not  turn  up.  I  met  him  three  weeks  later 
at  a  garden-party  with  his  wife.  But  he  appeared  to  have 
forgotten  me. 

Observing  old  Deleglise's  guests,  comparing  them  with 
their  names,  it  surprised  me  the  disconnection  between 
the  worker  and  the  work.  Writers  of  noble  sentiment,  of 
elevated  ideality,  I  found  contained  in  men  of  common- 
place appearance,  of  gross  appetites,  of  conventional  ideas. 
It  seemed  doubtful  whether  they  fully  comprehended  their 
own  work ;  certainly  it  had  no  effect  upon  their  own  lives. 
On  the  other  hand,  an  innocent,  boyish  young  man,  who 
lived  the  most  correct  of  lives  with  a  girlish-looking  wife 
in  an  ivy-covered  cottage  near  Barnes  Common,  I  dis- 
covered to  be  the  writer  of  decadent  stories  at  which  the 


354  P^^l  Kelver 

Empress  Theodora  might  have  blushed.  The  men  whose 
names  were  widest  known  were  not  the  men  who  shone 
the  brightest  in  DelegHse's  kitchen;  more  often  they  ap- 
peared the  dull  dogs,  listening  enviously,  or  failing  pa- 
thetically when  they  tried  to  compete  with  others  who  to 
the  public  were  comparatively  unknown.  After  a  time  I 
ceased  to  confound  the  artist  with  the  man,  thought  no 
more  of  judging  the  one  by  the  other  than  of  evolving  a 
tenant  from  the  house  to  which  circumstances  or  careless- 
ness might  have  directed  him.  Clearly  they  were  two  cre- 
ations originally  independent  of  each  other,  settling 
down  into  a  working  partnership  for  purposes  merely  of 
mutual  accommodation ;  the  spirit  evidently  indifferent  as 
to  the  particular  body  into  which  he  crept,  anxious  only 
for  a  place  to  work  in,  easily  contented. 

Varied  were  these  guests  that  gathered  round  old  Dele- 
gHse's oak.  Cabinet  Ministers  reported  to  be  in  Hom- 
burg ;  Russian  Nihilists  escaped  from  Siberia ;  Italian  rev- 
olutionaries;  high  church  dignitaries  disguised  in  grey 
suitings ;  ex-errand  boys,  who  had  discovered  that  with 
six  strokes  of  the  pen  they  could  set  half  London  laugh- 
ing at  whom  they  would ;  raw  laddies  with  the  burr  yet 
clinging  to  their  tongues,  but  who  we  knew  would  one 
day  have  the  people  dancing  to  the  music  of  their  words. 
Neither  wealth,  nor  birth,  nor  age,  nor  position  counted. 
Was  a  man  interesting,  amusing;  had  he  ideas  and 
thoughts  of  his  own  ?  Then  he  was  welcome.  Men  who 
had  come,  men  who  were  coming,  met  there  on  equal  foot- 
ing. Among  them,  as  years  ago  among  my  schoolmates,  I 
found  my  place — somewhat  to  my  dissatisfaction.  I 
amused.  Much  rather  would  I  have  shocked  them  by  the 
originality  of  my  views,  impressed  them  with  the  depth  of 
my  judgments.  They  declined  to  be  startled,  refused  to 
be  impressed;  instead,  they  laughed.  Nor  from  these 
men  could  I  obtain  sympathy  in  my  disappointment. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  villain!"  roared  DelegHse's 
caretaker  at  me   one   evening  on   entering   the  kitchen. 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     355 

"How  dare  you  waste  your  time  writing  this  sort  of 
stuff?" 

He  had  a  copy  of  the  paper  containing  my  ''Witch  of 
Moel  Sarbod"  in  his  hand — then  some  months  old.  He 
screwed  it  up  into  a  ball  and  flung  it  in  my  face.  "I've 
only  just  read  it.    What  did  you  get  for  it  ?" 

"Nothing,"  I  answered. 

"Nothing!"  he  screamed.  "You  got  off  for  nothing? 
You  ought  to  have  been  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail !" 

"Oh,  come,  it's  not  as  bad  as  that,"  suggested  old  Dele- 
glise. 

"Not  bad !  There  isn't  a  laugh  in  it  from  beginning  to 
end." 

"There  wasn't  intended  to  be,"  I  interrupted. 

"Why  not,  you  swindler  ?  What  were  you  sent  into  the 
world  to  do  ?    To  make  it  laugh." 

"I  want  to  make  it  think/'  I  told  him. 

"Make  it  think!  Hasn't  it  got  enough  to  think  about? 
Aren't  there  ten  thousand  penny-a-liners,  poets,  tragedi- 
ans, tub-thumpers,  long-eared  philosophers,  boring  it  to 
death  ?  Who  are  you  to  turn  up  your  nose  at  your  work 
and  tell  the  Almighty  His  own  business?  You  are  here 
to  make  us  laugh.  Get  on  with  your  work,  you  confound- 
ed young  idiot !" 

Urban  Vane  was  the  only  one  among  them  who  under- 
stood me,  who  agreed  with  me  that  I  was  fitted  for  higher 
things  than  merely  to  minister  to  the  world's  need  of 
laughter.  He  alone  it  was  who  would  listen  with  approval 
to  my  dreams  of  becoming  a  famous  tragedian,  a  writer 
of  soul-searching  books,  of  passion-analysing  plays.  I 
never  saw  him  laugh  himself,  certainly  not  at  anything 
funny.  "Humour!"  he  would  explain  in  his  languid 
drawl,  "personally  it  doesn't  amuse  me."  One  felt  its 
introduction  into  the  scheme  of  life  had  been  an  error.  He 
was  a  large,  fleshy  man,  with  a  dreamy,  caressing  voice 
and  strangely  impassive  face.  Where  he  came  from,  who 
he  was,  nobody  knew.     Without  ever  passing  a  remark 


356  Paul  Kelver 

himself  that  was  worth  Hstening  to,  he,  nevertheless,  by 
some  mysterious  trick  of  manner  I  am  unable  to  explain, 
soon  established  himself,  even  throughout  that  company, 
where  as  a  rule  men  found  their  proper  level,  as  a  silent 
authority  in  all  contests  of  wit  or  argument.  Stories  at 
which  he  listened,  bored,  fell  flat.  The  bon  mot  at  which 
some  faint  suggestion  of  a  smile  quivered  round  his  clean- 
shaven Hps  was  felt  to  be  the  crown  of  the  discussion.  I 
can  only  conclude  his  secret  to  have  been  his  magnificent 
assumption  of  superiority,  added  to  a  sphinx-like  impen- 
etrability behind  which  he  could  always  retire  from  any 
danger  of  exposure.  Subjects  about  which  he  knew  noth- 
ing— and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  they  were  more 
numerous  than  was  suspected — became  in  his  presence 
topics  outside  the  radius  of  cultivated  consideration :  one 
felt  ashamed  of  having  introduced  them.  His  own  sub- 
jects— they  were  few  but  exclusive — he  had  the  knack  of 
elevating  into  intellectual  tests :  one  felt  ashamed,  reflect- 
ing how  little  one  knew  about  them.  Whether  he  really 
did  possess  a  charm  of  manner,  or  whether  the  sense  of 
his  superiority  with  which  he  had  imbued  me  it  was  that 
made  any  condescension  he  paid  me  a  thing  to  grasp  at, 
I  am  unable  to  say.  Certain  it  is  that  when  he  suggested 
I  should  throw  up  chorus  singing  and  accompany  him 
into  the  provinces  as  manager  of  a  theatrical  company  he 
was  then  engaging  to  run  a  wonderful  drama  that  was 
going  to  revolutionise  the  English  stage  and  educate  the 
English  public,  I  allowed  myself  not  a  moment  for  con- 
sideration, but  accepted  his  proposal  with  grateful  de- 
light. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Dan.  Somehow  he  had  never  im- 
pressed Dan ;  but  then  Dan  was  a  fellow  to  impress  whom 
was  slow  work.  As  he  himself  confessed,  he  had  no  in- 
stinct for  character.  "I  judge,"  he  would  explain,  "purely 
by  observation." 

"What  does  that  matter?"  was  my  reply. 

"What  does  he  know  about  the  business  ?" 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     357 

"That's  why  he  wants  me." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"There's  not  much  to  know.    I  can  find  out." 

"Take  care  you  don't  find  out  that  there's  more  to  know 
than  you  think.    What  is  this  wonderful  play  of  his?" 

"I  haven't  seen  it  yet;  I  don't  think  it's  finished.  It's 
something  from  the  Spanish  or  the  Russian,  I'm  not  sure. 
I'm  to  put  it  into  shape  when  he's  done  the  translation. 
He  wants  me  to  put  my  name  to  it  as  the  adaptor." 

"Wonder  he  hasn't  asked  you  to  wear  his  clothes.  Has 
he  got  any  money  ?" 

"Of  course  he  has  money.    How  can  you  run  a  theatri- 
cal company  without  money?" 
,  "Have  you  seen  the  money  ?" 

"He  doesn't  carry  it  about  with  him  in  a  bag." 

"I  should  have  thought  your  ambition  to  be  to  act, 
not  to  manage.  Managers  are  to  be  had  cheap  enough. 
Why  should  he  want  some  one  who  knows  nothing 
about  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  act.    I'm  going  to  play  a  leading  part." 

"Great  Scott!" 

"He'll  do  the  management  really  himself ;  I  shall  simply 
advise  him.  But  he  doesn't  want  his  own  name  to  ap- 
pear." 

"Why  not?"  '      . 

"His  people  might  object." 

"Who  are  his  people?" 

"How  do  I  know  ?    What  a  suspicious  chap  you  are." 

Dan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  are  not  an  actor, 
you  never  will  be ;  you  are  not  a  business  man.  You've 
made  a  start  at  writing,  that's  your  proper  work.  Why 
not  go  on  with  it?" 

"I  can't  get  on  with  it.  That  one  thing  was  accepted, 
and  never  paid  for ;  everything  else  comes  back  regularly, 
just  as  before.  Besides,  I  can  go  on  writing  wherever  I 
am." 

"You've  got  friends  here  to  help  you." 


358  Paul  Kelver 

"They  don't  believe  I  can  do  anything  but  write  non- 
sense." 

"Well,  clever  nonsense  is  worth  writing.  It's  better 
than  stodgy  sense :  literature  is  blocked  up  with  that.  Why 
not  follow  their  advice  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  believe  they  are  right.  I'm  not  a 
clown ;  I  don't  mean  to  be.  Because  a  man  has  a  sense  of 
humour  it  doesn't  follow  he  has  nothing  else.  That  is 
only  one  of  my  gifts,  and  by  no  means  the  highest.  I 
have  knowledge  of  human  nature,  poetry,  dramatic  in- 
stinct. I  mean  to  prove  it  to  you  all.  Vane's  the  only  man 
that  understands  me." 

Dan  lit  his  pipe.  "Have  vou  made  up  your  mind  to 
go?" 

"Of  course  I  have.  It's  an  opportunity  that  doesn't 
occur  twice.     There's  a  tide  in  the  affairs '  " 

"Thanks,"  interrupted  Dan;  "I've  heard  it  before. 
Well,  if  you've  made  up  your  mind,  there's  an  end  of  the 
matter.  Good  luck  to  you!  You  are  young,  and  it's 
easier  to  learn  things  then  than  later." 

"You  talk,"  I  answered,  "as  if  you  were  old  enough  to 
be  my  grandfather." 

He  smiled  and  laid  both  hands  upon  my  shoulders.  "So 
I  am,"  he  said,  "quite  old  enough,  little  boy  Paul.  Don't 
be  angry ;  you'll  always  be  little  Paul  to  me."  He  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  strolled  to  the  window. 

"What'll  you  do?"  I  enquired.  "Will  you  keep  on 
these  rooms?" 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  shall  accept  an  oflfer  that  has  been 
made  to  me  to  take  the  sub-editorship  of  a  big  Yorkshire 
paper.  It  is  an  important  position  and  will  give  me  ex- 
perience." 

"You'll  never  be  happy  mewed  up  in  a  provincial  town," 
I  told  him.  "I  shall  want  a  London  address,  and  I  can 
easily  afford  it.    Let's  keep  them  on  together." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It  wouldn't  be  the  same  thing," 
he  said. 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest      359 

So  there  came  a  morning  when  we  said  good-bye.  Be- 
fore Dan  returned  from  the  office  I  should  be  gone.  They 
had  been  pleasant  months  that  we  had  spent  together  in 
these  pretty  rooms.  Though  my  life  was  calling  to  me 
full  of  hope,  I  felt  the  pain  of  leaving  them.  Two  years 
is  a  long  period  in  a  young  man's  life,  when  the  sap  is 
running  swiftly.  My  affections  had  already  taken  root 
there.  The  green  leaves  in  summer,  in  winter  the  bare 
branches  of  the  square,  the  sparrows  that  chirped  about 
the  window-sills,  the  quiet  peace  of  the  great  house,  Dan, 
kindly  old  Deleglise :  around  them  my  fibres  clung,  closer 
than  I  had  known.  The  Lady  of  the  train :  she  managed 
it  now  less  clumsily.  Her  hands  and  feet  had  grown 
smaller,  her  elbows  rounder.  I  found  myself  smiling  as  I 
thought  of  her — one  always  did  smile  when  one  thought 
of  Norah,  everybody  did ; — of  her  tomboy  ways,  her  ring- 
ing laugh — there  were  those  who  termed  it  noisy ;  her  ir- 
repressible frankness — there  were  times  when  it  was  in- 
convenient. Would  she  ever  become  lady-like,  sedate, 
proper?  One  doubted  it.  I  tried  to  picture  her  a  wife, 
the  mistress  of  a  house.  I  found  the  smile  deepening 
round  my  mouth.  What  a  jolly  wife  she  would  make !  I 
could  see  her  bustling,  full  of  importance;  flying  into 
tempers,  lasting  possibly  for  thirty  seconds ;  then  calling 
herself  names,  saving  all  argument  by  undertaking  her 
own  scolding,  and  doing  it  well.  I  followed  her  to  moth- 
erhood. What  a  joke  it  would  be !  What  would  she  do 
with  them?  vShe  would  just  let  them  do  what  they  liked 
with  her.  She  and  they  would  be  a  parcel  of  children  to- 
gether, she  the  most  excited  of  them  all.  No ;  on  second 
thoughts  I  could  detect  in  her  a  strong  vein  of  common 
sense.  They  would  have  to  mind  their  p's  and  q's.  I 
could  see  her  romping  with  them,  helping  them  to  tear 
their  clothes;  but  likewise  I  could  see  her  flying  after 
them,  bringing  back  an  armful  struggling,  bathing  it, 
physicking  it.  Perhaps  she  would  grow  stout,  grow  grey ; 
but  she  would  still  laugh  more  often  than  sigh,  speak  her 


360  Paul  Kelver 

mind,  be  quick,  good-tempered  Norah  to  the  end.  Her 
character  precluded  all  hope  of  surprise.  That,  as  I  told 
myself,  was  its  defect.  About  her  were  none  of  those 
glorious  possibilities  that  make  of  some  girls  charming 
mysteries.  A  woman,  said  I  to  myself,  should  be  a  won- 
drous jewel,  hiding  unknown  lights  and  shadows.  You, 
my  dear  Norah — I  spoke  my  thoughts  aloud,  as  had  be- 
come a  habit  with  me :  those  who  live  much  alone  fall  into 
this  way — you  are  merely  a  crystal,  not  shallow — no,  I 
should  not  call  you  shallow  by  any  mans,  but  transparent. 

What  would  he  be,  her  lover?  Some  plain,  matter-of- 
fact,  business-like  young  fellow,  a  good  player  of  cricket 
and  football,  fond  of  his  dinner.  What  a  very  uninterest- 
ing affair  the  love-making  would  be !  If  she  liked  him — 
well,  she  would  probably  tell  him  so;  if  she  didn't,  he 
would  know  it  in  five  minutes. 

As  for  inducing  her  to  change  her  mind,  wooing  her, 
cajoling  her — I  heard  myself  laughing  at  the  idea. 

There  came  a  quick  rap  at  the  door.  "Come  in,"  I 
cried ;  and  she  entered. 

"1  came  to  say  good-bye  to  you,"  she  explained.  "I'm 
just  going  out.    What  were  you  laughing  at  ?" 

"Oh,  at  an  idea  that  occurred  to  me." 

"A  funny  one  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  it  me." 

"Well,  it  was  something  in  connection  with  yourself. 
It  might  offend  you." 

"It  wouldn't  trouble  you  much  if  it  did,  would  it?" 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  it  would." 

"Then  why  not  tell  me?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  lover." 

It  did  offend  her ;  I  thought  it  would.  But  she  looked 
really  interesting  when  she  was  cross.  Her  grey  eyes 
would  flash,  and  her  whole  body  quiver.  There  was  a 
charming  spice  of  danger  always  about  making  her  cross. 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     361 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  shall  never  have  one." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  think  you  will  have  a  good  many." 
I  had  not  thought  so  before  then.  I  formed  the  idea  for 
the  first  time  in  that  moment,  while  looking  straight  into 
her  angry  face.    It  was  still  a  childish  face. 

The  anger  died  out  of  it  as  it  always  did  within  the 
minute,  and  she  laughed.  "It  would  be  fun,  wouldn't  it. 
I  wonder  what  I  should  do  with  him  ?  It  makes  you  feel 
very  serious  being  in  love,  doesn't  it?" 

"Very." 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  love  ?" 

I  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  the  delight  of  talking 
about  it  overcame  my  fear  of  being  chaffed.  Besides, 
when  she  felt  it,  nobody  could  be  more  delightfully  sym- 
pathetic.   I  determined  to  adventure  it. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "ever  since  I  was  a  boy.  If  you  are 
going  to  be  foolish,"  I  added,  for  I  saw  the  laugh  before 
it  came,  "I  shan't  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"I'm  not — I  won't,  really,"  she  pleaded,  making  her 
face  serious  again.     "What  is  she  like  ?" 

I  took  from  my  breast  pocket  Barbara's  photograph, 
and  handed  it  to  her  in  silence. 

"Is  she  really  as  beautiful  as  that?"  she  asked,  gazing 
at  it  evidently  fascinated. 

"More  so,"  I  assured  her.  "Her  expression  is  the  most 
beautiful  part  of  her.     Those  are  only  her  features." 

She  sighed.    "I  wish  I  was  beautiful." 

"You  are  at  an  awkward  age,"  I  told  her.  "It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  what  you  are  going  to  be  like." 

"Mamma  was  a  lovely  woman,  everybody  says  so;  and 
Tom  I  call  awfully  handsome.  Perhaps  I'll  be  better 
when  I'm  filled  out  a  bit  more."  A  small  Venetian  mirror 
hung  between  the  two  windows ;  she  glanced  up  into  it. 
"It's  my  nose  that  irritates  me,"  she  said.  She  rubbed  it 
viciously,  as  if  she  would  rub  it  out. 

"Some  people  admire  snub  noses,"  I  explained  to  her. 


362  Paul  Kelver 

"No,  really?" 

'Tennyson  speaks  of  them  as  *tip-tilted  like  the  petals 
of  a  rose.' " 

''How  nice  of  him !  Do  you  think  he  meant  my  sort  ?" 
She  rubbed  it  again,  but  in  a  kinder  fashion ;  then  looked 
again  at  Barbara's  photograph.     "Who  is  she?" 

"She  was  Miss  Hasluck,"  I  answered;  "she  is  the 
Countess  Huescar  now.     She  was  married  last  summer." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember;  you  told  us  about  her.  You 
were  children  together.  But  what's  the  good  of  your  be- 
ing in  love  with  her  if  she's  married  ?" 

"It  makes  my  whole  life  beautiful." 

"Wanting  somebody  you  can't  have  ?" 

"I  don't  want  her."'  * 

"You  said  you  were  in  love  with  her." 

"So  I  am." 

She  handed  me  back  the  photograph,  and  I  replaced  it 
in  my  pocket. 

"I  don't  understand  that  sort  of  love,"  she  said.  "If  I 
loved  anybody  I  should  want  to  have  them  with  me  al- 
ways." 

"She  is  with  me  always," I  answered, "in  my  thoughts." 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  clear  grey  eyes.  I  found 
myself  blinking.  Something  seemed  to  be  slipping  from 
me,  something  I  did  not  want  to  lose.  I  remember  a  simi- 
lar sensation  once  at  the  moment  of  waking  from  a 
strange,  delicious  dream  to  find  the  sunlight  pouring  in 
upon  me  through  an  open  window. 

"That  isn't  being  in  love,"  she  said.  "That's  being  in 
love  with  the  idea  of  being  in  love.  That's  the  way  I  used 
to  go  to  balls" — she  laughed — "in  front  of  the  glass.  You 
caught  me  once,  do  you  remember?" 

"And  was  it  not  sweeter,"  I  argued,  "the  imagination? 
You  were  the  belle  of  the  evening;  you  danced  divinely 
every  dance,  were  taken  in  to  supper  by  the  Lion.  In  re- 
ality you  trod  upon  your  partner's  toes,  bumped  and  were 
bumped,  were  left  a  wallflower  more  than  half  the  time, 


How  Paul  Set  Forth  Upon  a  Quest     363 

had  a  headache  the  next  day.  Were  not  the  dream  balls 
the  more  delightful  ?" 

"No,  they  weren't,"  she  answered  without  the  slightest 
hesitation.  "One  real  dance,  when  at  last  it  came,  was 
worth  the  whole  of  them.  Oh,  I  know,  I've  heard  you 
talking,  all  of  you — of  the  faces  that  you  see  in  dreams 
and  that  are  ever  so  much. more  beautiful  than  the  faces 
that  you  see  when  you're  awake ;  of  the  wonderful  songs 
that  nobody  ever  sings,  the  wonderful  pictures  that  no- 
body ever  paints,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it.     It's  tommyrot !" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  slang." 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  What  is  the  proper 
word?    Give  it  me." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  cant,"  I  suggested. 

"No,  I  don't.  Cant  is  something  that  you  don't  be- 
lieve in  yourself.  It's  tommyrot:  there  isn't  any  other 
word.  When  I'm  in  love  it  will  be  with  something  that 
is  real." 

I  was  feeling  angry  with  her.  "I  know  just  what  he 
will  be  like.  He  will  be  a  good-natured,  common- 
place  " 

"Whatever  he  is,"  she  interrupted,  "he'll  be  alive,  and 
he'll  want  me  and  I  shall  want  him.  Dreams  are  silly.  I 
prefer  being  up."  She  clapped  her  hands.  "That's  it." 
Then,  silent,  she  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  new 
interest.  "I've  been  wondering  and  wondering  what  it 
was :  you  are  not  really  awake  yet.  You've  never  got 
up." 

I  laughed  at  her  whimsical  way  of  putting  it ;  but  at  the 
back  of  my  brain  was  a  troubled  idea  that  perhaps  she 
was  revealing  to  me  the  truth.  And  if  so,  what  would 
"waking  up,"  as  she  termed  it,  be  like?  A  flash  of  memory 
recalled  to  me  that  summer  evening  upon  Barking  Bridge, 
when,  as  it  had  seemed  to  me,  the  little  childish  Paul  had 
slipped  away  from  me,  leaving  me  lonely  and  bewildered 
to  find  another  Self.    Was  my  boyhood  in  like  manner 


364  Paul  Kelver 

now  falling  from  me  ?  I  found  myself  clinging  to  it  with 
vague  terror.  Its  thoughts,  its  feelings — dreams :  they 
had  grown  sweet  to  me;  must  I  lose  them?  This  cold, 
unknown,  new  Self,  waiting  to  receive  me :  I  shrank  away 
from  it  with  fear. 

"Do  you  know,  I  think  you  will  be  rather  nice  when 
you  wake  up." 

Her  words  recalled  me  to  myself.  "Perhaps  I  never 
shall  wake  up,"  I  said.    "I  don't  want  to  wake  up." 

"Oh,  but  one  can't  go  on  dreaming  all  one's  life,"  she 
laughed.  "You'll  wake  up,  and  fall  in  love  with  somebody 
real."  She  came  across  to  me,  and  taking  the  lapels  of  my 
coat  in  both  her  hands,  gave  me  a  vigorous  shake.  "I 
hope  she'll  be  somebody  nice.     I  am  rather  afraid." 

"You  seem  to  think  me  a  fool !"  I  was  still  angry  with 
her,  without  quite  knowing  why. 

She  shook  me  again.  "You  know  I  don't.  But  it  isn't 
the  nice  people  that  take  best  care  of  themselves.  Tom 
can't.    I  have  to  take  care  of  him." 

I  laughed. 

"I  do,  really.  You  should  hear  me  scold  him.  I  like 
taking  care  of  people.     Good-bye." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  It  was  white  now  and  shapely, 
but  one  could  not  have  called  it  small.  Strong  it  felt  and 
firm  as  it  gripped  mine. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AND   HOW   CAME  BACK  AGAIN. 

I  LEFT  London,  the  drums  beating  in  my  heart,  the  flags 
waving  in  my  brain.  Somewhat  more  than  a  year  later, 
one  foggy  wet  December  evening,  I  sneaked  back  to  it 
defeated — ah,  that  is  a  small  thing,  capable  of  redress — 
disgraced.  I  returned  to  it  as  to  a  hiding-place  where,  lost 
in  the  crowd,  I  might  waste  my  days  unnoticed  until  such 
time  as  I  could  summon  up  sufficient  resolution  to  put  an 
end  to  my  dead  life.  I  had  been  ambitious — dwelling 
again  amid  the  bitterness  of  the  months  that  followed  my 
return,  I  write  in  the  past  tense.  I  had  been  eager  to  make 
a  name,  a  position  for  myself.  But  were  I  to  claim  no 
higher  aim,  I  should  be  doing  injustice  to  my  blood — to 
the  great-souled  gentleman  whose  whole  life  had  been  an 
ode  to  honour,  to  her  of  simple  faith  who  had  known  no 
other  prayer  to  teach  me  than  the  childish  cry,  "God  help 
me  to  be  good  V  I  had  wished  to  be  a  great  man,  but  it 
was  to  have  been  a  great  good  man.  The  world  was  to 
have  admired  me,  but  to  have  respected  me  also.  I  was 
to  have  been  the  knight  without  fear,  but,  rarer  yet,  with- 
out reproach — Galahad,  not  Launcelot.  I  had  learnt  my- 
self to  be  a  feeble,  backboneless  fighter,  conquered  by  the 
first  serious  assault  of  evil,  a  creature  of  mean  fears,  slave 
to  every  crack  of  the  devil's  whip,  a  feeder  with  swine. 

Urban  Vane  I  had  discovered  to  be  a  common  swindler. 
His  play  he  had  stolen  from  the  desk  of  a  well-known 
dramatist  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  in  Deleglise's 
kitchen.  The  man  had  fallen  ill,  and  Vane  had  been  con- 
stant in  his  visits.  Partly  recovering,  the  man  had  gone 
abroad  to  Italy.    Had  he  died  there,  as  at  the  time  was 


366 


Paul  Kelver 


expected,  the  robbery  might  never  have  come  to  light. 
News  reached  us  in  a  small  northern  town  that  he  had 
taken  a  fresh  lease  of  life  and  was  on  his  way  back  to 
England.  Then  it  was  that  Vane  with  calm  indifference, 
smoking  his  cigar  over  a  bottle  of  wine  to  which  he  had 
invited  me,  told  me  the  bald  truth,  adorning  it  with  some 
touches  of  wit.  Had  the  recital  come  upon  me  sooner,  I 
might  have  acted  differently ;  but  six  months'  companion- 
ship with  Urban  Vane,  if  it  had  not,  by  grace  of  the  Lord, 
destroyed  the  roots  of  whatever  flower  of  manhood  might 
have  been  implanted  in  me,  had  most  certainly  withered 
its  leaves. 

The  man  was  clever.  That  he  was  not  clever  enough 
to  perceive  from  the  beginning  what  he  has  learnt  since : 
that  honesty  is  the  best  policy — at  least,  for  men  with 
brains — remains  somewhat  of  a  mystery  to  me.  Where 
once  he  made  his  hundreds  among  shady  ways,  he  now,  I 
suppose,  makes  his  thousands  in  the  broad  daylight  of 
legitimate  enterprise.  Chicanery  in  the  blood,  one  might 
imagine,  has  to  be  worked  out.  Urban  Vanes  are  to  be 
found  in  all  callings.  They  commence  as  scamps;  years 
later,  to  one's  astonishment,  one  finds  them  ornaments  to 
their  profession.  Wild  oats  are  of  various  quality,  accord- 
ing to  the  soil  from  which  they  are  preserved.  We  sow 
them  in  our  various  ways. 

At  first  I  stormed.  Vane  sat  with  an  amused  smile  upon 
his  lips  and  listened. 

"Your  language,  my  dear  Kelver,"  he  replied,  my  vo- 
cabulary exhausted,  "might  wound  me  were  I  able  to  ac- 
cept you  as  an  authority  upon  this  vexed  question  of  mor- 
als. With  the  rest  of  the  world  you  preach  one  thing 
and  practise  another.  I  have  noticed  it  so  often.  It  is  per- 
haps sad,  but  the  preaching  has  ceased  to  interest  me. 
You  profess  to  be  very  indignant  with  me  for  making  use 
of  another  man's  ideas.  It  is  done  every  day.  You  your- 
self were  quite  ready  to  take  credit  not  due  to  you.  For 
months  we  have  been  travelling  with  this  play :  *Drama, 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        367 

in  five  acts,  by  Mr.  Horace  Moncreiff.'  Not  more  than 
two  hundred  lines  of  it  are  your  own — excellent  lines,  I 
admit,  but  they  do  not  constitute  the  play." 

This  aspect  of  the  affair  had  not  occurred  to  me.  "But 
you  asked  me  to  put  my  name  to  it,"  I  stammered.  "You 
said  you  did  not  want  your  own  to  appear — for  private 
reasons.    You  made  a  point  of  it." 

He  waved  away  the  smoke  from  his  cigar.  "The  man 
you  are  posing  as  would  never  have  put  his  name  to  work 
not  his  own.  You  never  hesitated ;  on  the  contrary,  you 
jumped  at  the  chance  of  so  easy  an  opening  to  your  career 
as  playwright.  My  need,  as  you  imagined  it,  was  your 
opportunity." 

"But  you  said  it  was  from  the  French,"  I  argued ;  "you 
had  merely  translated  it,  I  adapted  it.  I  don't  defend  the 
custom,  but  it  is  the  custom :  the  man  who  adapts  a  play 
calls  himself  the  author.    They  all  do  it." 

"I  know,"  he  answered.  "It  has  always  amused  me. 
Our  sick  friend  himself,  whom  I  am  sure  we  are  both  de- 
lighted to  welcome  back  to  life,  has  done  it  more  than 
once,  and  made  a  very  fair  profit  on  the  transaction.  In- 
deed, from  internal  evidence,  I  am  strongly  of  opinion 
that  this  present  play  is  a  case  in  point.  Well,  chickens 
come  home  to  roost :  I  adapt  from  him.  What  is  the  dif- 
ference ?" 

"Simply  this,"  he  continued,  pouring  himself  out  an- 
other glass  of  wine,  "that  whereas,  owing  to  the  anomal- 
ous state  of  the  copyright  laws,  stealing  from  the  foreign 
author  is  legal  and  commendable,  against  stealing  from 
the  living  English  author  there  is  a  certain  prejudice." 

"And  the  consequences,  I  am  afraid,  you  will  find  some- 
what unpleasant,"  I  suggested. 

He  laughed :  it  was  not  a  frivolity  to  which  he  was 
prone.    "You  mean,  my  dear  Kelver,  that  you  will." 

"Don't  look  so  dumbfounded,"  he  went  on.  "You  can- 
not be  so  stupid  as  you  are  pretending  to  be.  The  original 
manuscript  at  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  office  is  in  your 


368  Paul  Kelver 

handwriting.  You  knew  our  friend  as  well  as  I  did,  and 
visited  him.  Why,  the  whole  tour  has  been  under  your 
management.  You  have  arranged  everything — most  ex- 
cellently; I  have  been  quite  surprised." 

My  anger  came  later.  For  the  moment,  the  sudden 
light  blinded  me  to  everything  but  fear. 

''But  you  told  me,"  I  cried,  "it  was  only  a  matter  of 
form,  that  you  wanted  to  keep  your  name  out  of  it  be- 
cause  " 

He  was  looking  at  me  with  an  expression  of  genuine 
astonishment.  My  words  began  to  appear  humorous  even 
to  myself.  I  found  it  difficult  to  believe  I  had  been  the 
fool  I  was  now  seeing  myself  to  have  been. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  ''I  am  really  sorry.  I  took  you 
for  a  man  of  the  world.  I  thought  you  merely  did  not 
wish  to  know  anything." 

Still,  to  my  shame,  fear  was  the  thing  uppermost  in 
my  heart.  **You  are  not  going  to  put  it  all  on  to  me  ?"  I 
pleaded. 

He  had  risen.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 
Instead  of  flinging  it  ofif,  I  was  glad  of  its  kindly  pres- 
sure. He  was  the  only  man  to  whom  I  could  look  for 
help. 

''Don't  take  it  so  seriously,"  he  said.  "He  will  merely 
think  the  manuscript  has  been  lost.  As  likely  as  not,  he 
will  be  unable  to  remember  whether  he  wrote  it  or  merely 
thought  of  writing  it.  No  one  in  the  company  will  say 
anything:  it  isn't  their  business.  We  must  set  to  work. 
I  had  altered  it  a  good  deal  before  you  saw  it,  and  changed 
all  the  names  of  the  characters.  We  will  retain  the  third 
act :  it  is  the  only  thing  of  real  value  in  the  play.  The  sit- 
uation is  not  original ;  you  have  as  much  right  to  dish  it 
up  as  he  had.  In  a  fortnight  we  will  have  the  whole  thing 
so  different  that  if  he  saw  it  himself  he  would  only  im- 
agine we  had  got  hold  of  the  idea  and  had  forestalled 
him." 

There  were  moments  during  the  next  few  weeks  when 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        369 

I  listened  to  the  voice  of  my  good  angel,  when  I  saw  clear- 
ly that  even  from  the  lowest  point  of  view  he  was  giving 
me  sound  advice.  I  would  go  to  the  man,  tell  him  frankly 
the  whole  truth. 

But  Vane  never  left  my  elbow.  Suspecting,  I  suppose, 
he  gave  me  clearly  to  understand  that  if  I  did  so,  I  must 
expect  no  mercy  from  him.  My  story,  denounced  by  him 
as  an  outrageous  lie,  would  be  regarded  as  the  funk-in- 
spired subterfuge  of  a  young  rogue.  At  the  best  I  should 
handicap  myself  with  suspicion  that  would  last  me 
throughout  my  career.  On  the  other  hand,  what  harm 
had  we  done?  Presented  in  some  twenty  or  so  small 
towns,where  it  would  soon  be  forgotten,  a  play  something 
like.  Most  plays  were  something  like.  Our  friend  would 
produce  his  version  and  reap  a  rich  harvest;  ours  would 
disappear.  If  by  any  unlikely  chance  discussion  should 
arise,  the  advertisement  would  be  to  his  advantage.  So 
soon  as  possible  we  would  replace  it  by  a  new  piece  alto- 
gether. A  yoimg  man  of  my  genius  could  surely  write 
something  better  than  hotch-potch  such  as  this ;  experience 
was  all  that  I  had  lacked.  As  regarded  one's  own  con- 
science, was  not  the  world's  honesty  a  mere  question  of 
convention?  Had  he  been  a  young  man,  and  had  we 
diddled  him  out  of  his  play  for  a  ten-pound  note,  we 
should  have  been  applauded  as  sharp  men  of  business. 
The  one  commandment  of  the  world  was :  Don't  get 
•found  out.  The  whole  trouble,  left  alone,  would  sink  and 
fade.  Later,  we  should  tell  it  as  a  good  joke — and  be 
laughed  with. 

So  I  fell  from  mine  own  esteem.  Vane  helping  me — 
and  he  had  brains — I  set  feverishly  to  work.  I  am  glad 
to  remember  that  every  line  I  wrote  was  born  in  misery. 
I  tried  to  persuade  Vane  to  let  me  make  a  new  play  alto- 
gether, which  I  offered  to  give  him  for  nothing.  He  ex- 
pressed himself  as  grateful,  but  his  frequently  declared 
belief  in  my  dramatic  talent  failed  to  induce  his  accept- 
ance. 


370  Paul  Kelver 

"Later  on,  my  dear  Kelver,"  was  his  reply.  "For  the 
present  this  is  doing  very  well.  Going  on  as  we  are,  we 
shall  soon  improve  it  out  of  all  recognition,  while  at  the 
same  time  losing  nothing  that  is  essential.  All  your  ideas 
are  excellent." 

By  the  end  of  about  three  weeks  we  had  got  together 
a  concoction  that,  so  far  as  dialogue  and  characters  were 
concerned,  might  be  said  to  be  our  own.  There  was  good 
work  in  it,  here  and  there.  Under  other  conditions  I 
might  have  been  proud  of  much  that  I  had  written.  As  it 
was,  T  experienced  only  the  terror  of  the  thief  dodging 
the  constable:  my  cleverness  might  save  me;  it  afforded 
me  no  further  satisfaction.  My  humour,  when  I  heard 
the  people  laughing  at  it,  I  remembered  I  had  forged 
listening  in  vague  fear  to  every  creak  upon  the  stairs, 
wondering  in  what  form  discovery  might  come  upon  me. 
There  was  one  speech,  addressed  by  the  hero  to  the  vil- 
lain :  "Yes,  I  admit  it ;  I  do  love  her.  But  there  is  that 
which  I  love  better — my  self-respect !"  Stepping  down  to 
the  footlights  and  slapping  his  chest  (which  according  to 
stage  convention  would  appear  to  be  a  sort  of  moral  jewel- 
box  bursting  with  assorted  virtues),  our  juvenile  lead — a 
gentleman  who  led  a  somewhat  rabbit-like  existence,  per- 
petually diving  down  openings  to  avoid  service  of  writs, 
at  the  instance  of  his  wife,  for  alimony — would  invariably 
bring  down  the  house  upon  this  sentiment.  Every  night, 
listening  to  the  applause,  I  would  shudder,  recalling  how 
I  had  written  it  with  burning  cheeks. 

There  was  a  character  in  the  piece,  a  vicious  old  man, 
that  from  the  beginning  Vane  had  wanted  me  to  play.  I 
had  disliked  the  part  and  had  refused,  choosing  instead  to 
act  a  high-souled  countryman,  in  the  portrayal  of  whose 
irreproachable  emotions  I  had  taken  pleasure.  Vane  now 
renewed  his  arguments,  and  my  power  of  resistance  seem- 
ing to  have  departed  from  me,  I  accepted  the  exchange. 
Certainly  the  old  gentleman's  scenes  went  with  more  snap, 
but  at  a  cost  of  further  degradation  to  myself.     Upon 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        371 

an  older  actor  the  effect  might  have  been  harmless,  but 
the  growing  tree  springs  back  less  surely.  I  found  my- 
self taking  pleasure  in  the  coarse  laughter  that  rewarded 
my  suggestive  leers,  calling  up  all  the  evil  in  my  nature 
to  help  me  in  the  development  of  fresh  "business."  Vane 
was  enthusiastic  in  his  praises,  generous  with  his  assist- 
ance. Under  his  tuition  I  succeeded  in  making  the  part 
as  unpleasant  as  we  dared.  I  had  genius,  so  Vane  told 
me ;  I  understood  so  much  of  human  nature.  One  proof 
of  the  moral  deterioration  creeping  over  me  was  that  I 
was  beginning  to  like  Vane. 

Looking  back  at  the  man  as  I  see  him  plainly  now,  a 
very  ordinary  scamp,  his  pretension  not  even  amusing,  I 
find  it  difficult  to  present  him  as  he  appeared  to  my  boy- 
ish eyes.  He  was  well  educated  and  well  read.  He  gave 
himself  the  airs  of  a  superior  being  by  freak  of  fate  com- 
pelled to  abide  in  a  world  of  inferior  creatures.  To  live 
among  them  in  comfort  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  out- 
wardly conform  to  their  conventions ;  but  to  respect  their 
reasoning  would  have  been  beneath  him.  To  accept  their 
laws  as  binding  on  one's  own  conscience  was,  using  the 
common  expression,  to  give  oneself  away,  to  confess 
oneself  commonplace.  Every  decent  instinct  a  man 
might  own  to  was  proof  in  Vane's  eyes  of  his  being 
''suburban,''  "bourgeois" — everything  that  was  unintel- 
lectual.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  this  sort  of  talk. 
Vane  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  movement,  which  has 
since  become  somewhat  tiresome.  To  laugh  at  it  is  easy 
to  a  man  of  the  world;  boys  are  impressed  by  it.  From 
him  I  first  heard  the  now  familiar  advocacy  of  pure 
Hedonism.  Pan,  enticed  from  his  dark  groves,  was  to 
sit  upon  Olympus. 

My  lower  nature  rose  within  me  to  proclaim  the  foolish 
chatterer  as  a  prophet.  So  life  was  not  as  I  had  been 
taught — a  painful  struggle  between  good  and  evil.  There 
was  no  such  thing  as  evil ;  the  senseless  epithet  was  a  libel 
upon  Nature.     Not  through  wearisome  repression,  but 


37^  Paul  Kelver 

rather  through  joyous  expression  of  the  animal  lay  ad- 
vancement. 

Villains — workers  in  wrong  for  aesthetic  pleasure  of 
the  art — are  useful  characters  in  fiction ;  in  real  life  they 
do  not  exist.  I  am  convinced  the  man  believed  most  of 
the  rubbish  he  talked.  Since  the  time  of  which  I  write  he 
has  done  some  service  to  the  world.  I  understand  he  is 
an  excellent  husband  and  father,  a  considerate  master,  a 
delightful  host.  He  intended,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  im- 
prove me,  to  enlarge  my  understanding,  to  free  me  from 
the  soul-stifling  bondage  of  convention.  Not  to  credit 
him  with  this  well-meaning  intention  would  be  to  assume 
him  something  quite  inhuman,  to  bestow  upon  him  a  dig- 
nity beyond  his  deserts.  I  find  it  easier  to  regard  him 
merely  as  a  fool. 

Our  leading  lady  was  a  handsome  but  coarse  woman, 
somewhat  over-developed.  Starting  life  as  a  music-hall 
singer,  she  had  married  a  small  tradesman  in  the  south 
of  London.  Some  three  or  four  years  previous,  her  Juno- 
like charms  had  turned  the  head  of  a  youthful  novelist — 
a  refined,  sensitive  man,  of  whom  great  things  in  litera- 
ture had  been  expected,  and,  judging  from  his  earlier 
work,  not  unreasonably.  He  had  run  away  with  her,  and 
eventually  married  her;  the  scandal  was  still  fresh.  Al- 
ready she  had  repented  of  her  bargain.  These  women 
regard  their  infatuated  lovers  merely  as  steps  in  the  social 
ladder,  and  he  had  failed  to  appreciably  advance  her. 
Under  her  demoralising  spell  his  ambition  had  died  in 
him.  He  no  longer  wrote,  no  longer  took  interest  in  any- 
thing beyond  his  own  debasement.  He  was  with  us  in 
the  company,  playing  small  parts,  and  playing  them 
badly;  he  would  have  remained  with  us  as  bill-poster 
rather  than  have  been  sent  away. 

Vane  planned  to  bring  this  woman  and  myself  together. 
To  her  he  pictured  me  a  young  gentleman  of  means,  a 
coming  author,  who  would  soon  be  earning  an  income 
sufficient  to  keep  her  in  every  luxury.     To  me  he  hinted 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        373 

that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  me.  I  was  never  at- 
tracted to  her  by  any  feeling  stronger  than  the  admiration 
with  which  one  views  a  handsome  animal.  It  was  my 
vanity  upon  which  he  worked.  He  envied  me;  any  man 
would  envy  me;  experience  of  life  was  what  I  needed  to 
complete  my  genius.  The  great  intellects  of  this  earth 
must  learn  all  lessons,  even  at  the  cost  of  suffering  to 
themselves  and  others. 

As  years  before  I  had  laboured  to  acquire  a  hking  for 
cigars  and  whiskey,  deeming  it  an  accomplishment  neces- 
sary to  a  literary  career,  so  painstakingly  I  now  applied 
myself  to  the  cultivation  of  a  pretty  taste  in  passion.  Ac- 
cording to  the  literature,  fictional  and  historical.  Vane 
was  kind  enough  to  supply  me  with,  men  of  note  were 
invariably  sad  dogs.  That  my  temperament  was  not  that 
of  the  sad  dog,  that  I  lacked  instinct  and  inclination  for 
the  part,  appeared  to  this  young  idiot  of  whom  I  am  writ- 
ing in  the  light  of  a  defect.  That  her  languishing 
glances  irritated  rather  than  maddened  me,  that  the  oc- 
casional covert  pressure  of  her  hot,  thick  hand  left  me 
cold,  I  felt  a  reproach  to  my  manhood.  I  would  fall  in 
love  with  her.  Surely  my  blood  was  red  like  other  men's. 
Besides,  was  I  not  an  artist,  and  was  not  profligacy  the 
hall-mark  of  the  artist  ? 

But  one  grows  tired  of  the  confessional.  Fate  saved 
me  from  playing  the  part  Vane  had  assigned  me  in  this 
vulgar  comedy,  dragged  me  from  my  entanglement,  flung 
me  on  my  feet  again.  She  was  a  little  brusque  in  the 
process ;  but  I  do  not  feel  incHned  to  blame  the  kind  lady 
for  that.  The  mud  was  creeping  upward  fast,  and  a 
quick  hand  must  needs  be  rough. 

Our  dramatic  friend  produced  his  play  sooner  than  we 
had  expected.  It  crept  out  that  something  very  like  it 
had  been  seen  in  the  Provinces.  Argument  followed,  en- 
quiries were  set  on  foot.  "It  will  blow  over,"  said  Vane. 
But  it  seemed  to  be  blowing  our  way. 

The  salaries,  as  a  rule,  were  paid  by  me  on  Friday 


374  P^^l  Kelver 

night.  Vane,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  would  bring 
me  the  money  for  me  to  distribute  after  the  performance. 
We  were  playing  in  the  north  of  Ireland.  I  had  not  seen 
Vane  all  that  day.  So  soon  as  I  had  changed  my  clothes 
I  left  my  dressing-room  to  seek  him.  The  box-office 
keeper,  meeting  me,  put  a  note  into  my  hand.  It  was 
short  and  to  the  point.  Vane  had  pocketed  the  evening's 
takings,  and  had  left  by  the  seven-fifty  train!  He  re- 
gretted causing  inconvenience,  but  life  was  replete  with 
small  comedies;  the  wise  man  attached  no  seriousness  to 
them.  We  should  probably  meet  again  and  enjoy  a  laugh 
over  our  experiences. 

Some  rumour  had  got  about.  I  looked  up  from  the 
letter  to  find  myself  surrounded  by  suspicious  faces. 
With  dry  lips  I  told  them  the  truth.  Only  they  happened 
not  to  regard  it  as  the  truth.  Vane  throughout  had  con- 
trived cleverly ;  to  them  I  was  the  manager,  the  sole  per- 
son responsible.  My  wearily  spoken  explanations  were 
to  them  incomprehensible  lies.  The  quarter  of  an  hour 
might  have  been  worse  for  me  had  I  been  sufficiently  alive 
to  understand  or  care  what  they  were  saying.  A  dull, 
listless  apathy  had  come  over  me.  I  felt  the  scene  only 
stupid,  ridiculous,  tiresome.  There  was  some  talk  of 
giving  me  *'a  damned  good  hiding."  I  doubt  whether  I 
should  have  known  till  the  next  morning  whether  the  sug- 
gestion had  been  carried  out  or  not.  I  gathered  that  the 
true  history  of  the  play,  the  reason  for  the  sudden  altera- 
tions, had  been  known  to  them  all  along.  They  appeared 
to  have  reserved  their  virtuous  indignation  till  this  even- 
ing. As  explanation  of  my  apparent  sleepiness,  some- 
body, whether  in  kindness  to  me  or  not  I  cannot  say,  sug- 
gested I  was  drunk.  Fortunately,  it  carried  conviction. 
No  further  trains  left  the  town  that  night ;  I  was  allowed 
to  depart.  A  deputation  promised  to  be  round  at  my 
lodgings  early  in  the  morning. 

Our  leading  lady  had  left  the  theatre  immediately  on 
the  fall  of  the  curtain ;  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        375 

wait,  her  husband  acting  as  her  business  man.  On  reach- 
ing my  rooms,  I  found  her  sitting  by  the  fire.  It  re- 
minded me  that  our  agent  in  advance  having  fallen  ill, 
her  husband  had,  at  her  suggestion,  been  appointed  in  his 
place,  and  had  left  us  on  the  Wednesday  to  make  the 
necessary  preparations  in  the  next  town  on  our  list.  I 
thought  that  perhaps  she  had  come  round  for  her  money, 
and  the  idea  amused  me. 

"Well?"  she  said,  with  her  one  smile.  I  had  been 
doing  my  best  for  some  months  to  regard  it  as  soul-con- 
suming, but  without  any  real  success. 

"Well,"  I  answered.  It  bored  me,  her  being  there.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

"You  don*t  seem  overjoyed  to  see  me.  What's  the 
matter  with  you?     What's  happened?" 

I  laughed.  "Vane's  bolted  and  taken  the  week's 
money  with  him." 

"The  beast!"  she  said.  "I  knew  he  was  that  sort. 
What  ever  made  you  take  up  with  him?  Will  it  make 
much  difference  to  you?" 

"It  makes  a  difference  all  round,"  I  replied.  "There's 
no  money  to  pay  any  of  you.  There's  nothing  to  pay 
your  fares  back  to  London." 

She  had  risen.  "Here,  let  me  understand  this,"  she 
said.  "Are  you  the  rich  mug  Vane's  been  representing 
you  to  be,  or  only  his  accomplice?" 

"The  mug  and  the  accomplice  both,"  I  answered, 
"without  the  rich.  It's  his  tour.  He  put  my  name  to  it 
because  he  didn't  want  his  own  to  appear — for  family 
reasons.     It's  his  play;  he  stole  it " 

She  interrupted  me  with  a  whistle.  "I  thought  it 
looked  a  bit  fishy,  all  those  alterations.  But  such  funny 
things  do  happen  in  this  profession !     Stole  it,  did  he  ?" 

"The  whole  thing  in  manuscript.  I  put  my  name  to  it 
for  the  same  reason — he  didn't  want  his  own  to  appear." 

She  dropped  into  her  chair  and  laughed — a  good-tem- 
pered laugh,  loud  and  long.     "Well,  I'm  damned!"  she 


376  Paul  Kelver 

said.  "The  first  man  who  has  ever  taken  me  in.  I  should 
never  have  signed  if  I  had  thought  it  was  his  show.  I 
could  see  the  sort  he  was  with  half  an  eye."  She  jumped 
up  from  the  chair.  **Here,  let  me  get  out  of  this,"  she 
said.  "I  just  looked  in  to  know  what  time  to-morrow; 
I'd  forgotten.     You  needn't  say  I  came." 

Her  hand  upon  the  door,  laughter  seized  her  again,  so 
that  for  support  she  had  to  lean  against  the  wall. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  really  did  come?"  she  said. 
"You'll  guess  when  you  come  to  think  it  over,  so  I  may 
as  well  tell  you.  It's  a  bit  of  a  joke.  I  came  to  say  'yes' 
to  what  you  asked  me  last  night.     Have  you  forgotten?" 

I  stared  at  her.  Last  night!  It  seemed  a  long  while 
ago — so  very  unimportant  what  I  might  have  said. 

She  laughed  again.  "So  help  me!  if  you  haven't. 
Well,  you  asked  me  to  run  away  with  you — that's  all,  to 
let  our  two  souls  unite.  Damned  lucky  I  took  a  day  to 
think  it  over!     Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  I  answered,  without  moving.  I  was 
gripping  a  chair  to  prevent  myself  from  rushing  at  her, 
pushing  her  out  of  the  room,  and  locking  the  door.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

I  heard  her  turn  the  handle.  "Got  a  pound  or  two  to 
carry  you  over?"     It  was  a  woman's  voice. 

I  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket.  "One  pound  seven- 
teen," I  answered,  counting  it.  "It  will  pay  my  fare  to 
London — or  buy  me  a  dinner  and  a  second-hand  revolver. 
I  haven't  quite  decided  yet." 

"Oh,  you  get  back  and  pull  yourself  together,"  she 
said.     "You're  only  a  kid.     Gk)od-night." 

I  put  a  few  things  into  a  small  bag  and  walked  thirty 
miles  that  night  into  Belfast.  Arrived  in  London,  I  took 
a  lodging  in  Deptford,  where  I  was  least  likely  to  come  in 
contact  with  any  face  I  had  ever  seen  before.  I  main- 
tained myself  by  giving  singing  lessons  at  sixpence  the 
half-hour,  evening  lessons  in  French  and  German  (the 
Lord  forgive  me!)   to  ambitious  shop-boys  at  eighteen 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        377 

pence  a  week,  making  up  tradesmen's  books.  A  few  arti- 
cles of  jewellery  I  had  retained  enabled  me  to  tide  over 
bad  periods.  For  some  four  months  I  existed  there, 
never  going  outside  the  neighbourhood.  Occasionally, 
wandering  listlessly  about  the  streets,  some  object,  some 
vista,  would  strike  me  by  reason  of  its  familiarity.  Then 
I  would  turn  and  hasten  back  into  my  grave  of  dim,  wel- 
tering streets. 

Of  thoughts,  emotions,  during  these  dead  days  I  was 
unconscious.  Somewhere  in  my  brain  they  may  have 
been  stirring,  contending ;  but  myself  I  lived  as  in  a  long, 
dull  dream.  I  ate,  and  drank,  and  woke,  and  slept,  and 
walked  and  walked,  and  lounged  by  corners;  staring  by 
the  hour  together,  seeing  nothing. 

It  has  suprised  me  since  to  find  the  scenes  I  must  then 
have  witnessed  photographed  so  clearly  on  my  mind. 
Tragedies,  dramas,  farces,  played  before  me  in  that  teem- 
ing underworld — the  scenes  present  themselves  to  me  dis- 
tinct, complete ;  yet  I  have  no  recollection  of  ever  having 
seen  them, 

I  fell  ill.  It  must  have  been  some  time  in  April,  but  I 
kept  no  count  of  days.  Nobody  came  near  me,  nobody 
knew  of  me.  I  occupied  a  room  at  the  top  of  a  huge 
block  of  workmen's  dwellings.  A  woman  who  kept  a 
second-hand  store  had  lent  me  for  a  shilling  a  week  a  few 
articles  of  furniture.  Lying  upon  my  chair-bedstead,  I 
listened  to  the  shrill  sounds  around  me,  that  through  the 
light  and  darkness  never  ceased.  A  pint  of  milk,  left 
each  morning  on  the  stone  landing,  kept  me  alive.  I 
would  wait  for  the  man's  descending  footsteps,  then  crawl 
to  the  door.  I  hoped  I  was  going  to  die,  regretting  my 
returning  strength,  the  desire  for  food  that  drove  me  out 
into  the  streets  again. 

One  night,  a  week  or  two  after  my  partial  recovery,  I 
had  wandered  on  and  on  for  hour  after  hour.  The  break- 
ing dawn  recalled  me  to  myself.  I  was  outside  the 
palings  of  a  park.     In  the  faint  shadowy  light  it  looked 


378 


Paul  Kelver 


strange  and  unfamiliar.  I  was  too  tired  to  walk  further. 
I  scrambled  over  the  low  wooden  fencing,  and  reaching  a 
seat,  dropped  down  and  fell  asleep. 

I  was  sitting  in  a  sunny  avenue;  birds  were  singing 
joyously,  bright  flowers  were  all  around  me.  Norah  was 
beside  me,  her  frank,  sweet  eyes  were  looking  into  mine ; 
they  were  full  of  tenderness,  mingled  with  wonder.  It 
was  a  delightful  dream :  I  felt  myself  smiling. 

Suddenly  I  started  to  my  feet.  Norah's  strong  hand 
drew  me  down  again. 

I  was  in  the  broad  walk.  Regent's  Park,  where,  I 
remembered,  Norah  often  walked  before  breakfast.  A 
park-keeper,  the  only  other  human  creature  within  sight, 
was  eyeing  me  suspiciously.  I  saw  myself — without  a 
looking-glass — unkempt,  ragged.  My  intention  was  to 
run,  but  Norah  was  holding  me  by  the  arm.  Savagely  I 
tried  to  shake  her  off.  I  was  weak  from  my  recent  ill- 
ness, and,  I  suppose,  half  starved ;  it  angered  me  to  learn 
she  was  the  stronger  of  the  two.  In  spite  of  my  efforts, 
she  dragged  me  back. 

Ashamed  of  my  weakness,  ashamed  of  everything 
about  me,  I  burst  into  tears ;  and  that  of  course  made  me 
still  more  ashamed.  To  add  to  my  discomfort,  I  had  no 
handkerchief.  Holding  me  with  one  hand — it  was  quite 
sufficient — Norah  produced  her  own,  and  wiped  my  eyes. 
The  park-keeper,  satisfied,  I  suppose,  that  at  all  events  I 
was  not  dangerous,  with  a  grin  passed  on. 

''Where  have  you  been,  and  what  have  you  been 
doing?"  asked  Norah.  She  still  retained  her  grip  upon 
me,  and  in  her  grey  eyes  was  quiet  determination. 

So,  with  my  face  turned  away  from  her,  I  told  her  the 
whole  miserable  story,  taking  strange  satisfaction  in  ex- 
aggerating, if  anything,  my  own  share  of  the  disgrace. 
My  recital  ended,  I  sat  staring  down  the  long,  shadow- 
freckled  way,  and  for  awhile  there  was  no  sound  but  the 
chirping  of  the  sparrows. 

Then  behind  me  I  heard  a  smothered  laugh.     It  was 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        379 

impossible  to  imagine  it  could  come  from  Norah.  I 
turned  quickly  to  see  who  had  stolen  upon  us.  It  was 
Norah  who  was  laughing;  though  to  do  her  justice  she 
was  trying  to  suppress  it,  holding  her  handkerchief  to  her 
face.  It  was  of  no  use,  it  would  out;  she  abandoned  the 
struggle,  and  gave  way  to  it.  It  astonished  the  sparrows 
into  silence ;  they  stood  in  a  row  upon  the  low  iron  border 
and  looked  at  one  another. 
'    ''I  am  glad  you  think  it  funny,"  I  said, 

"But  it  is  funny,"  she  persisted.  "Don't  say  you  have 
lost  your  sense  of  humour,  Paul ;  it  was  the  one  real  thing 
you  possessed.  You  were  so  cocky — you  don't  know 
how  cocky  you  were !  Everybody  was  a  fool  but  Vane ; 
nobody  else  but  he  appreciated  you  at  your  true  worth. 
You  and  he  between  you  were  going  to  reform  the  stage, 
to  educate  the  public,  to  put  everything  and  everybody  to 
rights.  I  am  awfully  sorry  for  all  you've  gone  through ; 
but  now  that  it  is  over,  can't  you  see  yourself  that  it  is 
funny  ?" 

Faintly,  dimly,  this  aspect  of  the  case,  for  the  very  first 
time,  began  to  present  itself  to  me ;  but  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred Norah  to  have  been  impressed  by  its  tragedy. 

"That  is  not  all,"  I  said.  "I  nearly  ran  away  with 
another  man's  ,wife." 

I  was  glad  to  notice  that  sobered  her  somewhat. 
"Nearly?     Why  not  quite?"  she  asked  more  seriously. 

"She  thought  I  was  some  young  idiot  with  money,"  I 
replied  bitterly,  pleased  with  the  effect  I  had  produced. 
"Vane  had  told  her  a  pack  of  lies.  When  she  found  out 
I  was  only  a  poor  devil,  ruined,  disgraced,  without  a  six- 
pence— "  I  made  a  gesture  expressive  of  eloquent  con- 
tempt for  female  nature  generally. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Norah ;  "I  told  you  you  would  fall 
in  love  with  something  real." 

Her  words  irritated  me,  unreasonably,  I  confess.  "In 
love!"  I  replied;  "good  God,  I  was  never  in  love  with 
herr 


38o 


Paul  Kelver 


"Then  why  did  you  nearly  run  away  with  her?" 

I  was  wishing  now  I  had  not  mentioned  the  matter ;  it 
promised  to  be  difficult  of  explanation.  "I  don't  know," 
I  replied  irritably.  "I  thought  she  was  in  love  with  me. 
She  was  very  beautiful — at  least,  other  people  seemed  to 
think  she  was.  Artists  are  not  like  ordinary  men.  You 
must  live — understand  life,  before  you  can  teach  it  to 
others.  When  a  beautiful  woman  is  in  love  with  you — or 
pretends  to  be,  you — you  must  say  something.  You 
can't  stand  like  a  fool  and " 

Again  her  laughter  interrupted  me ;  this  time  she  made 
no  attempt  to  hide  it.  The  sparrows  chirped  angrily, 
and  flew  off  to  continue  their  conversation  somewhere 
where  there  would  be  less  noise. 

"You  are  the  biggest  baby,  Paul,"  she  said,  so  soon  as 
she  could  speak,  "I  ever  heard  of."  She  seized  me  by  the 
shoulders,  and  turned  me  round.  "If  you  weren't  looking 
so  ill  and  miserable,  I  would  shake  you,  Paul,  till  there 
wasn't  a  bit  of  breath  left  in  your  body." 

"How  much  money  do  you  owe?"  she  asked — "to  the 
people  in  the  company  and  anybody  else,  I  mean — 
roughly  ?" 

"About  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,"  I  answered. 

"Then  if  you  rest  day  or  night,  Paul,  till  you  have  paid 
that  hundred  and  fifty — every  penny  of  it — I'll  think  you 
the  meanest  cad  in  London !" 

Her  grey  eyes  were  flashing  quite  alarmingly.  I  felt 
almost  afraid  of  her.     She  could  be  so  vehement  at  times. 

"But  how  can  I  ?"  I  asked. 

"Go  straight  home,"  she  commanded,  "and  write  some- 
thing funny:  an  article,  story — anything  you  like;  only 
mind  that  it  is  funny.  Post  it  to  me  to-morrow,  at  the 
latest.  Dan  is  in  London,  editing  a  new  weekly.  I'll 
have  it  copied  out  and  sent  to  him.  I  shan't  say  who  it 
is  from.  I  shall  merely  ask  him  to  read  it  and  reply,  at 
once.  If  you've  a  grain  of  grit  left  in  you,  you'll  write 
something  that  he  will  be  glad  to  have  and  to  pay  for. 


And  How  Came  Back  Again        381 

Pawn  that  ring  on  your  finger  and  get  yourself  a  good 
breakfast" — it  was  my  mother's  wedding-ring,  the  only 
piece  of  dispensable  property  I  had  not  parted  with — "she 
won't  mind  helping  you.  But  nobody  else  is  going  to — 
except  yourself." 

She  looked  at  her  watch.     "I  must  be  off."    She  turned 

again.     "There  is  something  I  was  forgetting.     B " 

— she  mentioned  the  name  of  the  dramatist  whose  play 
Vane  had  stolen — "has  been  looking  for  you  for  the  last 
three  months.  If  you  hadn't  been  an  idiot  you  might 
have  saved  yourself  a  good  deal  of  trouble.  He  is  quite 
certain  it  was  Vane  stole  the  manuscript.  He  asked  the 
nurse  to  bring  it  to  him  an  hour  after  Vane  had  left  the 
house,  and  it  couldn't  be  found.  Besides,  the  man's  char- 
acter is  well  known.  And  so  is  yours.  I  won't  tell  it 
you,"  she  laughed ;  "anyhow,  it  isn't  that  of  a  knave." 

She  made  a  step  towards  me,  then  changed  her  mind. 
"No,"  she  said,  "I  shan't  shake  hands  with  you  till  you 
have  paid  the  last  penny  that  you  owe.  Then  I  shall 
know  that  you  are  a  man." 

She  did  not  look  back.  I  watched  her,  till  the  sunlight, 
streaming  in  my  eyes,  raised  a  golden  mist  between  us. 

Then  I  went  to  my  work. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  PRINCESS  OF  THE  GOLDEN  LOCKS  SENDS  PAUL  A  RING. 

It  took  me  three  years  to  win  that  handshake.  For  the 
first  six  months  I  remained  in  Deptford.  There  was  ex- 
cellent material  to  be  found  there  for  humorous  articles, 
essays,  stories;  likewise  for  stories  tragic  and  pathetic. 
But  I  owed  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds — a  little  over  two 
hundred  it  reached  to,  I  found,  when  I  came  to  add  up 
the  actual  figures.  So  I  paid  strict  attention  to  business, 
left  the  tears  to  be  garnered  by  others — ^better  fitted  may- 
be for  the  task;  kept  to  my  own  patch,  reaped  and  took 
to  market  only  the  laughter. 

At  the  beginning  I  sent  each  manuscript  to  Norah ;  she 
had  it  copied  out,  debited  me  with  the  cost,  received  pay- 
ment, and  sent  me  the  balance.  At  first  my  earnings 
were  small ;  but  Norah  was  an  excellent  agent ;  rapidly 
they  increased.  Dan  grew  quite  cross  with  her,  wrote  in 
pained  surprise  at  her  greed.  The  "matter"  was  fair,  but 
in  no  way  remarkable.  Any  friend  of  hers,  of  course,  he 
was  anxious  to  assist;  but  business  was  business.  In 
justice  to  his  proprietors,  he  could  not  and  would  not  pay 
more  than  the  market  value.  Miss  Deleglise, '  replying 
curtly  in  the  third  person,  found  herself  in  perfect  accord 
with  Mr.  Brian  as  to  business  being  business.  If  Mr. 
Brian  could  not  afford  to  pay  her  price  for  material  so 
excellent,  other  editors  with  whom  Miss  Deleglise  was 
equally  well  acquainted  could  and  would.  Answer  by 
return  would  greatly  oblige,  pending  which  the  manu- 
script then  in  her  hands  she  retained.  Mr.  Brian,  under- 
standing he  had  found  his  match,  grumbled  but  paid. 
Whether  he  had  any  suspicion  who  "Jack  Horner"  might 
be,  he  never  confessed;  but  he  would  have  played  the 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks      383 

game,  pulled  his  end  of  the  rope,  in  either  case.  Nor  was 
he  allowed  to  decide  the  question  for  himself.  Competi- 
tion was  introduced  into  the  argument.  Of  purpose  a 
certain  proportion  of  my  work  my  agent  sent  elsewhere. 
''Jack  Horner"  grew  to  be  a  commodity  in  demand.  For, 
seated  at  my  rickety  table,  I  laughed  as  I  wrote,  the 
fourth  wall  of  the  dismal  room  fading  before  my  eyes, 
revealing  vistas  beyond. 

Still,  it  was  slow  work.  Humour  is  not  an  industrious 
maid ;  declines  to  be  bustled,  will  work  only  when  she 
feels  inclined — does  not  often  feel  inclined;  gives  herself 
a  good  many  unnecessary  airs ;  if  worried,  packs  up  and 
goes  off.  Heaven  knows  where!  comes  back  when  she 
thinks  she  will :  a  somewhat  unreliable  young  person.  To 
my  literary  labours  I  found  it  necessary  to  add  journal- 
ism. I  lacked  Dan's  magnificent  assurance.  Fate  never 
befriends  the  nervous.  Had  I  burst  into  the  editorial 
sanctum,  the  editor  most  surely  would  have  been  out;  if 
in,  would  have  been  a  man  of  short  ways,  would  have  seen 
to  it  that  I  went  out  quickly.  But  the  idea  was  not  to  be 
thought  of ;  Robert  Macaire  himself  in  my  one  coat  would 
have  been  diffident,  apologetic.  I  joined  the  ranks  of  the 
penny-a-liners — to  be  literally  exact,  three-halfpence-a- 
liners.  In  company  with  half-a-dozen  other  shabby  out- 
siders— some  of  them  young  men  like  myself  seeking  to 
climb;  others,  older  men  who  had  sunk — I  attended  in- 
quests, police  courts;  flew  after  fire-engines;  rejoiced  in 
street  accidents;  yearned  for  murders.  Somewhat  vul- 
ture-like we  lived  precariously  upon  the  misfortunes  of 
others.  We  made  occasional  half-crowns  by  providing 
the  public  with  scandal,  occasional  crowns  by  keeping  our 
information  to  ourselves. 

"I  think,  gentlemen,"  would  explain  our  spokesman  in 
a  hoarse  whisper,  on  returning  to  the  table,  "I  think  the 
corpse's  brother-in-law  is  anxious  that  the  affair,  if  possi- 
ble, should  be  kept  out  of  the  papers." 

The  closeness  and  attention  with  which  we  would  fol- 


384  Paul  Kelver 

low  that  particular  case,  the  fulness  and  completeness  of 
our  notes,  would  be  quite  remarkable.  Our  spokesman 
would  rise,  drift  carelessly  away,  to  return  five  minutes 
later,  wiping  his  mouth. 

"Not  a  very  interesting  case,  gentlemen,  I  don't  think. 
Shall  we  say  five  shillings  apiece  ?''  Sometimes  a  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  our  calling  would  induce  us  to  stand  out 
for  ten. 

And  here  also  my  sense  of  humour  came  to  my  aid; 
gave  me  perhaps  an  undue  advantage  over  my  compet- 
itors. Twelve  good  men  and  true  had  been  asked  to  say 
how  a  Lascar  sailor  had  met  his  death.  It  was  perfectly 
clear  how  he  had  met  his  death.  A  plumber,  working  on 
the  roof  of  a  small  two-storeyed  house,  had  slipped  and 
fallen  on  him.  The  plumber  had  escaped  with  a  few 
bruises ;  the  unfortunate  sailor  had  been  picked  up  dead. 
Some  blame  attached  to  the  plumber.  His  mate,  an  ex- 
cellent witness,  told  us  the  whole  story. 

"I  was  fixing  a  gas-pipe  on  the  first  floor,"  said  the 
man.     "The  prisoner  was  on  the  roof." 

"We  won't  call  him  'the  prisoner,'  "  interrupted  the  cor- 
oner, "at  least,  not  yet.  Refer  to  him,  if  you  please,  as 
the  'last  witness. '" 

"The  last  witness,"  corrected  himself  the  man.  "He 
shouts  down  the  chimney  to  know  if  I  was  ready  for 
him." 

"  'Ready  and  waiting,'  I  says. 

"  'Right,'  he  says ;  'I'm  coming  in  through  the  window.' 

"  'Wait  a  bit,'  I  says ;  'I'll  go  down  and  move  the  ladder 
for  you. 

"  'It's  all  right,'  he  says ;  'I  can  reach  it.' 

"  'No,  you  can't,'  I  says.  'It's  the  other  side  of  the 
chimney.' 

"  'I  can  get  round,'  he  says. 

"Well,  before  I  knew  what  had  happened,  I  hears  him 
go,  smack !  I  rushes  to  the  window  and  looks  out :  I  see 
him  on  the  pavement,  sitting  up  like. 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks      385 

"  'Hullo,  Jim,'  I  says.     'Have  you  hurt  yourself  ?' 

"  'I  think  Fm  all  right,'  he  says,  'as  far  as  I  can  tell. 
But  I  wish  you'd  come  down.  This  bloke  I've  fallen  on 
looks  a  bit  sick.'  " 

The  others  headed  their  flimsy  "Sad  Accident,"  a  title 
truthful  but  not  alluring.  I  altered  mine  to  "Plumber  in 
a  Hurry — Fatal  Result."  Saying  as  little  as  possible 
about  the  unfortunate  sailor,  I  called  the  attention  of 
plumbers  generally  to  the  coroner's  very  just  remarks 
upon  the  folly  of  undue  haste ;  pointed  out  to  them,  as  a 
body,  the  trouble  that  would  arise  if  somehow  they  could 
not  cure  themselves  of  this  tendency  to  rush  through 
their  work  without  a  moment's  loss  of  time. 

It  established  for  me  a  useful  reputation.  The  sub- 
editor of  one  evening  paper  condescended  so  far  as  to 
come  out  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  shake  hands  with  me. 

"That's  the  sort  of  thing  we  want,"  he  told  me ;  "a  light 
touch,  a  bit  of  humour." 

I  snatched  fun  from  fires  (I  sincerely  trust  the  insur- 
ance premiums  were  not  overdue)  ;  culled  quaintness  from 
street  rows;  extracted  merriment  from  catastrophes  the 
most  painful,  and  prospered. 

Though  often  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  street,  I 
unremittingly  avoided  the  old  house  at  Poplar.  I  was 
suffering  inconvenience  at  this  period  by  reason  of  finding 
myself  two  distinct  individuals,  contending  with  each 
other.  My  object  was  to  encourage  the  new  Paul — 
the  sensible,  practical,  pushful  Paul,  whose  career  began 
to  look  promising;  to  drive  away  from  interfering  with 
me  his  strangely  unlike  twin — ^^the  old  childish  Paul  of 
the  sad,  far-seeing  eyes.  Sometimes  out  of  the  cracked 
looking-glass  his  wistful,  yearning  face  would  plead  to 
me ;  but  I  would  sternly  shake  my  head.  I  knew  well  his 
cunning.  Had  I  let  him  have  his  way,  he  would  have  led 
me  through  the  maze  of  streets  he  knew  so  well,  past  the 
broken  railings  (outside  which  he  would  have  left  my 
body  standing),  along  the  weedy  pathway,  through  the 


386  Paul  Kelver 

cracked  and  dented  door,  up  the  creaking  staircase  to  the 
dismal  little  chamber  where  we  once — he  and  I  together 
— had  sat  dreaming  foolish  dreams. 

"Come,"  he  would  whisper;  "it  is  so  near.  Let  us 
push  aside  the  chest  of  drawers  very  quietly,  softly  raise 
the  broken  sash,  prop  it  open  with  the  Latin  diction- 
ary, lean  our  elbows  on  the  sill,  listen  to  the  voices 
of  the  weary  city,  voices  calling  to  us  from  the  dark- 
ness. 

But  I  was  too  wary  to  be  caught.  "Later  on,"  I  would 
reply  to  him;  "when  I  have  made  my  way,  when  I  am 
stronger  to  withstand  your  wheedling.  Then  I  will  go 
with  you,  if  you  are  still  in  existence,  my  sentimental  little 
friend.  We  will  dream  again  the  old  impractical,  foolish 
dreams — and  laugh  at  them." 

So  he  would  fade  away,  and  in  his  place  would  nod  to 
me  approvingly  a  businesslike-looking,  wide-awake  young 
fellow. 

But  to  one  sentimental  temptation  I  succumbed.  My 
position  was  by  now  assured;  there  was  no  longer  any 
reason  for  my  hiding  myself.  I  determined  to  move 
westward.  I  had  not  intended  to  soar  so  high,  but  pass- 
ing through  Guildford  Street  one  day,  the  creeper-cov- 
ered corner  house  that  my  father  had  once  thought  of  tak- 
ing recalled  itself  to  me.  A  card  was  in  the  fanlight.  I 
knocked  and  made  enquiries.  A  bed-sitting-room  upon 
the  third  floor  was  vacant.  I  remembered  it  well  the 
moment  the  loquacious  landlady  opened  its  door. 

"This  shall  be  your  room,  Paul,"  said  my  father.  So 
clearly  his  voice  sounded  behind  me  that  I  turned,  for- 
getting for  the  moment  it  was  but  a  memory.  "You  will 
be  quiet  here,  and  we  can  shut  out  the  bed  and  wash- 
stand  with  a  screen." 

So  my  father  had  his  way.  It  was  a  pleasant,  sunny 
little  room,  overlooking  the  gardens  of  the  hospital.  I 
followed  my  father's  suggestion,  shut  out  the  bed  and 
washstand  with  a  screen.     And  sometimes  of  an  evening 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks      387 

it  would  amuse  me  to  hear  my  father  turn  the  handle  of 
the  door. 

"How  are  you  getting  on — all  right  ?" 

"Famously." 

Often  there  came  back  to  me  the  words  he  had  once 
used.  "You  must  be  the  practical  man,  Paul,  and  get  on. 
Myself,  I  have  always  been  somewhat  of  a  dreamer.  I 
meant  to  do  such  great  things  in  the  world,  and  somehow 
— I  suppose  I  aimed  too  high.     I  wasn't — practical." 

"But  ought  not  one  to  aim  high?"  I  had  asked. 

My  father  had  fidgeted  in  his  chair.  "It  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  say.  It  is  all  so — so  very  ununderstandable.  You 
aim  high  and  you  don't  hit  anything — at  least,  it  seems  as 
if  you  didn't.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better  to  aim  at 
something  low,  and — and  hit  it.  Yet  it  seems  a  pity — 
one's  ideals,  all  the  best  part  of  one — I  don't  know  why  it 
is.     Perhaps  we  do  not  understand." 

For  some  months  I  had  been  writing  over  my  own 
name.  One  day  a  letter  was  forwarded  to  me  by  an 
editor  to  whose  care  it  had  been  addressed.  It  was  a 
short,  formal  note  from  the  maternal  Sellars,  inviting  me 
to  the  wedding  of  her  daughter  with  a  Mr.  Reginald 
Clapper.  I  had  almost  forgoten  the  incident  of  the  Lady 
'Ortensia,  but  it  was  not  unsatisfactory  to  learn  that  it 
had  terminated  pleasantly.  Also,  I  judged  from  an  invita- 
tion having  been  sent  me,  that  the  lady  wished  me  to  be 
witness  of  the  fact  that  my  desertion  had  not  left  her  dis- 
consolate. So  much  gratification  I  felt  I  owed  her,  and 
accordingly,  purchasing  a  present  as  expensive  as  my 
means  would  permit,  I  made  my  way  on  the  following 
Thursday,  clad  in  frock  coat  and  light  grey  trousers,  to 
Kennington  Church. 

The  ceremony  was  already  in  progress.  Creeping  on 
tiptoe  up  the  aisle,  I  was  about  to  slip  into  an  empty  pew, 
when  a  hand  was  laid  upon  my  sleeve. 

"We're  all  here,"  whispered  the  O'Kelly;  "just  room 
for  ye." 


388 


Paul  Kelver 


Squeezing  his  hand  as  I  passed,  I  sat  down  between  'the 
Signora  and  Mrs.  Peedles.  Both  ladies  were  weeping; 
the  Signora  silently,  one  tear  at  a  time  clinging  fondly  to 
her  pretty  face  as  though  loath  to  fall  from  it;  Mrs. 
Peedles  copiously,  with  explosive  gurgles,  as  of  water 
from  a  bottle. 

"It  is  such  a  beautiful  service,"  murmured  the  Sign- 
ora, pressing  my  hand  as  I  settled  myself  down.  "I 
should  so — so  love  to  be  married." 

"Me  darling,"  whispered  the  O'Kelly,  seizing  her  other 
hand  and  kissing  it  covertly  behind  his  open  Prayer  Book, 
"perhaps  ye  will  be — one  day." 

The  Signora  through  her  tears  smiled  at  him,  but  with 
a  sigh  shook  her  head. 

Mrs.  Peedles,  clad,  so  far  as  the  dim  November  light 
enabled  me  to  judge,  in  the  costume  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
— nothing  regal;  the  sort  of  thing  one  might  assume  to 
have  been  Pier  Majesty's  second  best,  say  third  best,  frock 
— explained  th,at  weddings  always  reminded  her  how 
fleeting  a  thing  was  love. 

"The  poor  dears !"  she  sobbed.  "But  there,  there's  no 
telling.  Perhaps  they'll  be  happy.  I'm  sure  I  hope  they 
may  be.     He  looks  harmless." 

Jarman,  stretching  out  a  hand  to  me  from  the  other 
side  of  Mrs.  Peedles,  urged  me  to  cheer  up.  "Don't  wear 
your  'eart  upon  your  sleeve,"  he  advised.  "Try  and 
smile." 

In  the  vestry  I  met  old  friends.  The  maternal  Sellars, 
stouter  than  ever,  had  been  accommodated  with  a  chair — 
at  least,  I  assumed  so,  she  being  in  a  sitting  posture ;  the 
chair  itself  was  not  in  evidence.  She  greeted  me  with 
more  graciousness  than  I  had  expected,  enquiring  after 
my  health  with  pointedness  and  an  amount  of  tender 
solicitude  that,  until  the  explanation  broke  upon  me, 
somewhat  puzzled  me. 

Mr.  Reginald  Clapper  was  a  small  but  energetic  gen- 
tleman, much  impressed,  I  was  glad  to  notice,  with  a  con- 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     389 

viction  of  his  own  good  fortune.  He  expressed  the  great- 
est delight  at  being  introduced  to  me,  shook  me  heartily 
by  the  hand,  and  hoped  we  should  always  be  friends. 

"Won't  be  my  fault  if  we're  not,"  he  added.  "Come 
and  see  us  whenever  you  like."  He  repeated  this  three 
times.  I  gathered  the  general  sentiment  to  be  that  he 
was  acting,  if  anything,  with  excess  of  generosity. 

Mrs.  Reginald  Clapper,  as  I  was  relieved  to  know  she 
now  was,  received  my  salute  to  a  subdued  murmur  of  ap- 
plause. She  looked  to  my  eyes  handsomer  than  when  I 
had  last  seen  her,  or  maybe  my  taste  was  growing  less 
exacting.  She  also  trusted  she  might  always  regard  me 
as  a  friend.  I  replied  that  it  would  be  my  hope  to  de- 
serve the  honour;  whereupon  she  kissed  me  of  her  own 
accord,  and  embracing  her  mother,  shed  some  tears,  ex- 
plaining the  reason  to  be  that  everybody  was  so  good 
to  her. 

Brother  George,  less  lank  than  formerly,  hampered  by 
a  pair  of  enormous  white  kid  gloves,  superintended  my 
signing  of  the  register,  whispering  to  me  sympathetically : 
"Better  luck  next  time,  old  cock." 

The  fat  young  lady — or,  maybe,  the  lean  young  lady, 
grown  stouter,  I  cannot  say  for  certain — who  feared  I 
had  forgotten  her,  a  thing  I  assured  her  utterly  impos- 
sible, was  good  enough  to  say  that,  in  her  opinion,  I  was 
worth  all  the  others  put  together. 

"And  so  I  told  her,"  added  the  fat  young  lady — or  the 
lean  one  grown  stouter,  "a  dozen  times  if  I  told  her  once. 
But  there !" 

I  murmured  my  obligations. 

Cousin  Joseph,  whom  I  found  no  difficulty  in  recognis- 
ing by  reason  of  his  watery  eyes,  appeared  not  so  chirpy 
as  of  yore. 

"You  take  my  tip,"  advised  Cousin  Joseph,  drawing 
me  aside,  "and  keep  out  of  it." 

"You  speak  from  experience?"  I  suggested. 

"I'm  as  fond  of  a  joke,"  said  the  watery-eyed  Joseph, 


390 


Paul  Kelver 


"as  any  man.  But  when  it  comes  to  buckets  of 
water " 

A  reminder  from  the  maternal  Sellars  that  breakfast 
had  been  ordered  for  eleven  o'clock  caused  a  general 
movement  and  arrested  Joseph's  revelations. 

"See  you  again,  perhaps,"  he  murmured,  and  pushed 
past  me. 

What  Mrs.  Sellars,  I  suppose,  would  have  alluded  to  as 
a  cold  col-la-shon  had  been  arranged  for  at  a  restaurant 
near  by.  I  walked  there  in  company  with  Uncle  and 
Aunt  Gutton;  not  because  I  particularly  desired  their 
companionship,  but  because  Uncle  Gutton,  seizing  me  by 
the  arm,  left  me  no  alternative. 

"Now  then,  young  man,"  commenced  Uncle  Gutton 
kindly,  but  boisterously  so  soon  as  we  were  in  the  street, 
at  some  little  distance  behind  the  others,  "if  you  want  to 
pitch  into  me,  you  pitch  away.  I  shan't  mind,  and  maybe 
it'll  do  you  good." 

I  informed  him  that  nothing  was  further  from  my  de- 
sire. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  returned  Uncle  Gutton,  seemingly  dis- 
appointed. "If  you're  willing  to  forgive  and  forget,  so 
am  I.  I  never  liked  you,  as  I  daresay  you  saw,  and  so  I 
told  Rosie.  *He  may  be  cleverer  than  he  looks,'  I  says, 
'or  he  may  be  a  bigger  fool  than  I  think  him,  though 
that's  hardly  likely.  You  take  my  advice  and  get  a  full- 
grown  article,  then  you'll  know  what  you're  doing.'  " 

I  told  him  I  thought  his  advice  had  been  admirable. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  he  returned,  somewhat  puz- 
zled ;  "though  if  you  wanted  to  call  me  names  I  shouldn't 
have  blamed  you.  Anyhow,  you've  took  it  like  a  sensible 
chap.  You've  got  over  it,  as  I  always  told  her  you  would. 
Young  men  out  of  story-books  don't  die  of  broken  hearts, 
even  if  for  a  month  or  two  they  do  feel  like  standing  on 
their  head  in  the  water-butt." 

"Why,  I  was  in  love  myself  three  times,"  explained 
Uncle  Gutton,  "before  I  married  the  old  woman." 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks      391 

Aunt  Gutton  sighed  and  said  she  was  afraid  gentlemen 
didn't  feel  these  things  as  much  as  they  ought  to. 

"They've  got  their  living  to  earn,"  retorted  Uncle  Gut- 
ton. 

I  agreed  with  Uncle  Gutton  that  life  could  not  be 
wasted  in  vain  regret. 

"As  for  the  rest,"  admitted  Uncle  Gutton,  handsomely, 
"I  was  wrong.  You've  turned  out  better  than  I  expected 
you  would." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  improved  opinion,  and  as  we 
entered  the  restaurant  we  shook  hands. 

Minikin  we  found  there  waiting  for  us.  He  explained 
that  having  been  able  to  obtain  only  limited  leave  of  ab- 
sence from  business,  he  had  concluded  the  time  would 
be  better  employed  at  the  restaurant  than  at  the  church. 
Others  were  there  also  with  whom  I  was  unacquainted, 
young  sparks,  admirers,  I  presume,  of  the  Lady  'Ortensia 
in  her  professional  capacity,  fellow-clerks  of  Mr.  Clap- 
per, who  was  something  in  the  City.  Altogether  we 
must  have  numbered  a  score. 

Breakfast  was  laid  in  a  large  room  on  the  first  floor. 
The  wedding  presents  stood  displayed  upon  a  side-table. 
My  own,  with  my  card  attached,  had  not  been  seen  by 
Mrs.  Clapper  till  that  moment.  She  and  her  mother  lin- 
gered, examining  it. 

"Real  silver!"  I  heard  the  maternal  Sellars  whisper, 
"Must  have  paid  a  ten  pound  note  for  it." 

"I  hope  you'll  find  it  useful,"  I  said. 

The  maternal  Sellars,  drifting  away,  joined  the  others 
gathered  together  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  set  my  cap  at  you  merely  be- 
cause you  were  a  gentleman,"  said  the  Lady  'Ortensia. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  I  answered.  "We  were  both 
foolish." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  it  was  merely  that,"  con- 
tinued the  Lady  'Ortensia.  "I  did  like  you.  And  I 
wouldn't  have  disgraced  you — at  least,  I'd  have  tried  not 


392  Paul  Kelver 

to.  We  women  are  quick  to  learn.  You  never  gave  me 
time." 

"Believe  me,  things  are  much  better  as  they  are,"  I 
said. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered.  "I  was  a  fool."  She 
glanced  round;  we  still  had  the  corner  to  ourselves.  "I 
told  a  rare  pack  of  lies,"  she  said;  "I  didn't  seem  able 
to  help  it ;  I  was  feeling  sore  all  over.  But  I  have  always 
been  ashamed  of  myself.  I'll  tell  them  the  truth,  if  you 
like." 

I  thought  I  saw  a  way  of  making  her  mind  easy.  "My 
dear  girl,"  I  said,  "you  have  taken  the  blame  upon  your- 
self, and  let  me  go  scot-free.     It  was  generous  of  you." 

"You  mean  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  truth,"  I  answered,  "would  shift  all  the  shame  on 
to  me.  It  was  I  who  broke  my  word,  acted  shabbily  from 
beginning  to  end." 

"I  hadn't  looked  at  it  in  that  light,"  she  replied. 
"Very  well,  I'll  hold  my  tongue." 

My  place  at  breakfast  was  to  the  left  of  the  maternal 
Sellars,  the  Signora  next  to  me,  and  the  O'Kelly  oppo- 
site. Uncle  Gutton  faced  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 
The  disillusioned  Joseph  was  hidden  from  me  by  flowers, 
so  that  his  voice,  raised  from  time  to  time,  fell  upon  my 
ears,  embellished  with  the  mysterious  significance  of  the 
unseen  oracle. 

For  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  the  meal  pro- 
ceeded almost  in  silence.  The  maternal  Sellars  when  not 
engaged  in  whispered  argument  with  the  perspiring 
waiter,  was  furtively  occupied  in  working  sums  upon  the 
table-cloth  by  aid  of  a  blunt  pencil.  The  Signora, 
strangely  unlike  her  usual  self,  was  not  in  talkative  mood. 

"It  was  so  kind  of  them  to  invite  me,"  said  the  Signora, 
speaking  low.     "But  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  have  come." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked 

"I'm  not  fit  to  be  here,"  murmured  the  Signora  in  a 
broken  voice.     "What  right  have  I  at  wedding  break- 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     393 

fasts  ?     Of  course,  for  dear  Willie  it  is  different.     He  has 
been  married." 

The  O'Kelly,  who  never  when  the  Signora  was  present 
seemed  to  care  much  for  conversation  in  which  she  was 
unable  to  participate,  took  advantage  of  his  neighbour's 
being  somewhat  deaf  to  lapse  into  abstraction.  Jarman 
essayed  a  few  witticisms  of  a  general  character,  of  which 
nobody  took  any  notice.  The  professional  admirers  of 
the  Lady  'Ortensia,  seated  together  at  a  corner  of  the 
table,  appeared  to  be  enjoying  a  small  joke  among  them- 
selves. Occasionally,  one  or  another  of  them  would  laugh 
nervously.  But  for  the  most  part  the  only  sounds  to  be 
heard  were  the  clatter  of  the  knives  and  forks,  the  ener- 
getic shuffling  of  the  waiter,  and  a  curious  hissing  noise 
as  of  escaping  gas,  caused  by  Uncle  Gutton  drinking 
champagne. 

With  the  cutting,  or,  rather,  the  smashing  into  a  hun- 
dred fragments,  of  the  wedding  cake — a  work  that  taxed 
the  united  strength  of  bride  and  bridegroom  to  the  utmost 
— the  atmosphere  lost  something  of  its  sombreness.  The 
company,  warmed  by  food,  displaying  indications  of  be- 
ing nearly  done,  commenced  to  simmer.  The  maternal 
Sellars,  putting  away  with  her  blunt  pencil  considerations 
of  material  nature,  embraced  the  table  with  a  smile. 

''But  it  is  a  sad  thing,"  sighed  the  maternal  Sellars  the 
next  moment,  with  a  shake  of  her  huge  head,  "when  your 
daughter  marries,  and  goes  away  and  leaves  you." 

"Damned  sight  sadder,"  commented  Uncle  Gutton, 
"when  she  don't  go  off,  but  hangs  on  at  home  year  after 
year  and  expects  you  to  keep  her." 

I  credit  Uncle  Gutton  with  intending  this  as  an  aside 
for  the  exclusive  benefit  of  the  maternal  Sellars ;  but  his 
voice  was  not  of  the  timbre  that  lends  itself  to  secrecy. 
One  of  the  bridesmaids,  a  plain,  elderly  girl,  bending  over 
her  plate,  flushed  scarlet.  I  concluded  her  to  be  Miss 
Gutton. 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me,"  said  Aunt  Gutton  from  the 


394  P^^''  Kelver 

other  end  of  the  table,  "that  gentlemen  are  as  keen  on 
marrying  nowadays  as  they  used  to  be." 

"Got  to  know  a  bit  about  it,  I  expect,"  sounded  the 
small,  shrill  voice  of  the  unseen  Joseph. 

"To  my  thinking,"  exclaimed  a  hatchet-faced  gentle- 
man, "one  of  the  evils  crying  most  loudly  for  redress  at 
the  present  moment  is  the  utterly  needless  and  monstrous 
expense  of  legal  proceedings."  He  spoke  rapidly  and 
with  warmth.  "Take  divorce.  At  present,  what  is  it? 
The  rich  man's  luxury," 

Conversation  appeared  to  be  drifting  in  a  direction  un- 
suitable to  the  occasion;  but  Jarman  was  fortunately 
there  to  seize  the  helm. 

"The  plain  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  said  Jarman,  "girls 
have  gone  up  in  value.  Time  was,  so  I've  heard,  when 
they  used  to  be  given  away  with  a  useful  bit  of  household 
linen,  maybe  a  chair  or  two.  Nowadays — well,  it's  only 
chaps  wallowing  in  wealth  like  Clapper  there  as  can  af- 
ford a  really  first-class  article." 

Mr.  Clapper,  not  a  gentleman  in  other  respects  of  ex- 
ceptional brilliancy,  possessed  one  quality  that  popularity- 
seekers  might  have  envied  him :  the  ability  to  explode  on 
the  slightest  provocation  into  a  laugh  instinct  with  all  the 
characteristics  of  genuine  delight. 

"Give  and  take,"  observed  the  maternal  Sellars,  so  soon 
as  Mr.  Clapper's  roar  had  died  away ;  "that's  what  you've 
got  to  do  when  you're  married." 

"Give  a  deal  more  than  you  bargained  for  and  take 
what  you  don't  want — that  sums  it  up,"  came  the  bitter 
voice  of  the  unseen. 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet,  Joe,"  advised  the  stout  young  lady, 
from  which  I  concluded  she  had  once  been  the  lean 
young  lady.     "You  talk  enough  for  a  man." 

"Can't  I  open  my  mouth?"  demanded  the  indignant 
oracle. 

"You  look  less  foolish  when  you  keep  it  shut,"  returned 
the  stout  young  lady. 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks      395 

"We'll  show  them  how  to  get  on,"  observed  the  Lady 
'Ortensia  to  her  bridegroom,  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Clapper  responded  with  a  gurgle. 

''When  me  and  the  old  girl  there  fixed  things  up,"  said 
Uncle  Gutton,  "we  didn't  talk  no  nonsense,  and  we  didn't 
start  with  no  misunderstandings.  'I'm  not  a  duke,'  I 
says " 

"Had  she  been  mistaking  you  for  one  ?"  enquired  Mini- 
kin. 

Mr.  Clapper  commented,  not  tactfully,  but  with  ap- 
preciative laugh.  I  feared  for  a  moment  lest  Uncle  Gut- 
ton's  little  eyes  should  leave  his  head. 

"Not  being  a  natural-born,  one-eyed  fool,"  replied 
Uncle  Gutton,  glaring  at  the  unabashed  Minikin,  "she 
did  not.  'I'm  not  a  duke,'  I  says,  and  she  had  sense 
enough  to  know  as  I  was  talking  sarcastic  like.  'I'm  not 
offering  you  a  life  of  luxury  and  ease.  I'm  offering  you 
myself,  just  what  you  see,  and  nothing  more.'  " 

"She  took  it?"  asked  Minikin,  who  was  mopping  up 
his  gravy  with  his  bread. 

"She  accepted  me,  sir,"  returned  Uncle  Gutton,  in 
a  voice  that  would  have  awed  any  one  but  Minikin. 
"Can  you  give  me  any  good  reason  for  her  not  doing 
so?" 

"No  need  to  get  mad  with  me,"  explained  Minikin. 
"I'm  not  blaming  the  poor  woman.  We  all  have  our  mo- 
ments of  despair." 

The  unfortunate  Clapper  again  exploded.  Uncle  Gut- 
ton rose  to  his  feet.  The  ready  Jarman  saved  the  situa- 
tion. 

"'Ear!  'ear!"  cried  Jarman,  banging  the  table  with 
the  handles  of  two  knives.  "Silence  for  Uncle  Gutton! 
'E's  going  to  propose  a  toast.     'Ear,  'ear !" 

Mrs.  Clapper,  seconding  his  efforts,  the  whole  table 
broke  into  applause. 

"What,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  get  up  to  say — "  began 
Uncle  Gutton. 


396  Paul  Kelver 

"Good  old  Uncle  Gutton !  "  persisted  the  determined 
Jarman.     ''Bride  and  bridegroom — long  life  to  'em !" 

Uncle  Gutton,  evidently  pleased,  allowed  his  indigna- 
tion against  Minikin  to  evaporate. 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Gutton,  "if  you  think  I'm  the  one 
to  do  it " 

The  response  was  unmistakable.  In  our  enthusiasm 
we  broke  two  glasses  and  upset  a  cruet;  a  small,  thin 
lady  was  unfortunate  enough  to  shed  her  chignon.  Thus 
encouraged.  Uncle  Gutton  launched  himself  upon  his 
task.  Personally,  I  should  have  been  better  pleased  had 
Fate  not  interposed  to  assign  to  him  the  duty. 

Starting  with  a  somewhat  uninstructive  history  of  his 
own  career,  he  suddenly,  and  for  no  reason  at  all  obvious, 
branched  off  into  fierce  censure  of  the  Adulteration  Act. 
Reminded  of  the  time  by  the  maternal  Sellars,  he  got  in 
his  first  sensible  remark  by  observing  that  with  such  ques- 
tions, he  took  it,  the  present  company  was  not  particularly 
interested,  and  directed  himself  to  the  main  argument. 
To  his.  Uncle  Gutton's,  foresight,  wisdom  and  instinctive 
understanding  of  humanity,  Mr.  Clapper,  it  appeared, 
owed  his  present  happiness.  Uncle  Gutton  it  was  who 
had  divined  from  the  outset  the  sort  of  husband  the 
fair  Rosina  would  come  eventually  to  desire — a  plain, 
simple,  hard-working,  level-headed  sort  of  chap,  with  no 
hity-tity  nonsense  about  him:  such  an  one,  in  short,  as 
Mr.  Clapper  himself — (at  this  Mr.  Clapper  expressed 
approval  by  a  lengthy  laugh) — a  gentleman  who,  so  far 
as  Uncle  Gutton's  knowledge  went,  had  but  one  fault:  a 
silly  habit  of  laughing  when  there  was  nothing  whatever 
to  laugh  at;  of  which,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  the  cares  and 
responsibilities  of  married  life  would  cure  him.  (To  the 
rest  of  the  discourse  Mr.  Clapper  listened  with  a  gravity 
painfully  maintained.)  There  had  been  moments,  Uncle 
Gutton  was  compelled  to  admit,  when  the  fair  Rosina  had 
shown  inclination  to  make  a  fool  of  herself — ^to  desire  in 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     397 

place  of  honest  worth  mere  painted  baubles.  He  used  the 
term  in  no  offensive  sense.  Speaking  for  himself,  what  a 
man  wanted  beyond  his  weekly  newspaper,  he.  Uncle 
Gutton,  was  unable  to  understand ;  but  if  there  were  fools 
in  the  world  who  wanted  to  read  rubbish  written  by  other 
fools,  then  the  other  fools  would  of  course  write  it; 
Uncle  Gutton  did  not  blame  them.  He  mentioned  no 
names,  but  what  he  would  say  was :  a  plain  man  for  a 
sensible  girl,  and  no  painted  baubles. 

The  waiter  here  entering  with  a  message  from  the 
cabman  to  the  effect  that  if  he  was  to  catch  the  twelve- 
forty-five  from  Charing  Cross,  it  was  about  full  time  he 
started,  Uncle  Gutton  was  compelled  to  bring  his  speech 
to  a  premature  conclusion.  The  bride  and  bridegroom 
were  hustled  into  their  clothes.  There  followed  much 
female  embracing  and  male  hand-shaking.  The  rice  hav- 
ing been  forgotten,  the  waiter  was  almost  thrown  down- 
stairs, with  directions  to  at  once  procure  some.  There 
appearing  danger  of  his  not  returning  in  time,  the  re- 
sourceful Jarman  suggested  cold  semolina  pudding  as  a 
substitute.  But  the  idea  was  discouraged  by  the  bride. 
A  slipper  of  remarkable  antiquity,  discovered  on  the  floor 
and  regarded  as  a  gift  from  Providence,  was  flung  from 
the  window  by  brother  George,  with  admirable  aim,  and 
alighted  on  the  roof  of  the  cab.  The  waiter,  on  his  return, 
not  being  able  to  find  it,  seemed  surprised. 

I  walked  back  as  far  as  the  Obelisk  with  the  O'Kelly 
and  the  Signora,  who  were  then  living  together  in  Lam- 
beth. Till  that  morning  I  had  not  seen  the  O'Kelly  since 
my  departure  from  London,  nearly  two  years  before,  so 
that  we  had  much  to  tell  each  other.  For  the  third  time 
now  had  the  O'Kelly  proved  his  utter  unworthiness  to  be 
the  husband  of  the  lady  to  whom  he  still  referred  as  his 
"dear  good  wife." 

"But,  under  the  circumstances,  would  it  not  be  better," 


398  Paul  Kelver 

I  suggested,  "for  her  to  obtain  a  divorce?  Then  you  and 
the  Signora  could  marry  and  there  would  be  an  end  to  the 
whole  trouble." 

"From  a  strictly  worldly  point  of  view,"  replied  the 
O'Kelly,  "it  certainly  would  be;  but  Mrs.  O'Kelly" — his 
voice  took  to  itself  unconsciously  a  tone  of  reverence — 
"is  not  an  ordinary  woman.  You  can  have  no  concep- 
tion, my  dear  Kelver,  of  her  goodness.  I  had  a  letter 
from  her  only  two  months  ago,  a  few  weeks  after  the — 
the  last  occurrence.  Not  one  word  of  reproach,  only  that 
if  I  trespassed  against  her  even  unto  seven  times  seven 
she  would  still  consider  it  her  duty  to  forgive  me;  that 
the  'home'  would  always  be  there  for  me  to  return  to 
and  repent." 

A  tear  stood  in  the  O'Kelly's  eye.  "A  beautiful  na- 
ture," he  commented.  "There  are  not  many  women  like 
her." 

"Not  one  in  a  million!"  added  the  Signora,  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Well,  to  me  it  seems  like  pure  obstinacy,"  I  said. 

The  O'Kelly  spoke  quite  angrily.  "Don't  ye  say  a 
word  against  her !  I  won't  listen  to  it.  Ye  don't  under- 
stand her.     She  never  will  despair  of  reforming  me." 

"You  see,  Mr.  Kelver,"  explained  the  Signora,  "the 
whole  difficulty  arises  from  my  unfortunate  profession. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  keep  out  of  dear  Willie's  way. 
If,  I  could  earn  my  living  by  any  other  means,  I  would ; 
but  I  can't.  And  when  he  sees  my  name  upon  the  posters, 
it's  all  over  with  him." 

"I  do  wish,  Willie,  dear,"  added  the  Signora  in  tones  of 
gentle  reproof,  "that  you  were  not  quite  so  weak." 

"Me  dear,"  replied  the  O'Kelly,  "ye  don't  know  how  at- 
tractive ye  are  or  ye  wouldn't  blame  me." 

I  laughed.  "Wliy  don't  you  be  firm,"  I  suggested  to 
the  Signora,  "send  him  packing  about  his  business?" 

"I  ought  to,"  admitted  the  Signora.     "I  always  mean 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden   Locks      399 

to,  until  I  see  him.  Then  I  don't  seem  able  to  say  any- 
thing— not  anything  I  ought  to." 

"Ye  do  say  it,"  contradicted  the  O'Kelly.  ''Ye're  an 
angel,  only  I  won't  listen  to  ye." 

'T  don't  say  it  as  if  I  meant  it,"  persisted  the  Signora. 
"It's  evident  I  don't." 

*T  still  think  it  a  pity,"  I  said,  "someone  does  not  ex- 
plain to  Mrs.  O'Kelly  that  a  divorce  would  be  the  truer 
kindness." 

"It  is  difficult  to  decide,"  argued  the  Signora.  "If  ever 
you  should  want  to  leave  me " 

"Me  darling!"  exclaimed  the  O'Kelly. 

"But  you  may,"  insisted  the  Signora.  "Something 
may  happen  to  help  you,  to  show  you  how  wicked  it  all 
is.  I  shall  be  glad  then  to  think  that  you  will  go  back 
to  her.  Because  she  is  a  good  woman,  Willie,  you  know 
she  is." 

"She's  a  saint,"  agreed  Willie. 

At  the  Obelisk  I  shook  hands  with  them,  and  alone 
pursued  my  way  towards  Fleet  Street. 

The  next  friend  whose  acquaintance  I  renewed  was 
Dan.  He  occupied  chambers  in  the  Temple,  and  one 
evening  a  week  or  two  after  the  'Ortensia  marriage,  I 
called  upon  him.  Nothing  in  his  manner  of  greeting  me 
suggested  the  necessity  of  explanation.  Dan  never  de- 
manded anything  of  his  friends  beyond  their  need  of 
him.  Shaking  hands  with  me,  he  pushed  me  down  into 
the  easy-chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
filled  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"I  left  you  alone,"  he  said.  "You  had  to  go  through 
it,  your  slough  of  despond.  It  lies  across  every  path — 
that  leads  to  anywhere.     Clear  of  it?" 

"I  think  so,"  I  replied,  smiHng. 

"You  are  on  the  high  road,"  he  continued.  "You  have 
only  to  walk  steadily.  Sure  you  have  left  nothing  be- 
hind you— in  the  slough?" 


400  Paul  Kelver 

"Nothing  worth  bringing  out  of  it,"  I  said.  "Why  do 
you  ask  so  seriously?" 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  head,  rumpling  my  hair,  as 
in  the  old  days. 

"Don^t  leave  him  behiind  you,"  he  said;  "the  little 
boy  Paul — Paul  the  dreamer." 

I  laughed.     "Oh,  he !     He  was  only  in  my  way." 

"Yes,  here,"  answered  Dan.  "This  is  not  his  world. 
He  is  of  no  use  to  you  here ;  won't  help  you  to  bread  and 
cheese — no,  nor  kisses  either.  But  keep  him  near  you. 
Later,  you  will  find,  perhaps,  that  all  along  he  has  been 
the  real  Paul — the  living,  growing  Paul;  the  other — ^the 
active,  worldly,  pushful  Paul,  only  the  stuff  that  dreams 
are  made  of,  his  fretful  life  a  troubled  night  rounded  by  a 
sleep." 

"I  have  been  driving  him  away,"  I  said.  "He  is  so — 
so  impracticable." 

Dan  shook  his  head  gravely.  "It  is  not  his  world,"  he 
repeated.  "We  must  eat,  drink — ^be  husbands,  fathers. 
He  does  not  understand.  Here  he  is  the  child.  Take 
care  of  him." 

We  sat  in  silence  for  a  little  while — for  longer,  per- 
haps, than  it  seemed  to  us — Dan  in  the  chair  opposite  to 
me,  each  of  us  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts. 

"You  have  an  excellent  agent,"  said  Dan;  "retain  her 
services  as  long  as  you  can.  She  possesses  the  great 
advantage  of  having  no  conscience,  as  regards  your  af- 
fairs.    Women  never  have  where  they " 

He  broke  off  to  stir  the  fire. 

"You  like  her?"  I  asked.  The  words  sounded  feeble. 
It  is  only  the  writer  who  fits  the  language  to  the  emotion ; 
the  living  man  more  often  selects  by  contrast. 

"She  is  my  ideal  woman,"  returned  Dan;  "true  and 
strong  and  tender ;  clear  as  crystal,  pure  as  dawn.  Like 
her!" 

He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  "We  do  not 
marry  our  ideals,"  he   went  on.     "We  love   with   our 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     401 

hearts,  not  with  our  souls.  The  woman  I  shall  marry" 
— he  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  a  smile  upon  his  face — "she 
will  be  some  sweet,  clinging,  childish  woman,  David  Cop^ 
perfield's  Dora.  Only  I  am  not  Doady,  who  always  seems 
to  me  to  have  been  somewhat  of  a —  He  reminds  me  of 
you,  Paul,  a  little.  Dickens  was  right;  her  helplessness, 
as  time  went  on,  would  have  bored  him  more  and  more 
instead  of  appealing  to  him." 

"And  the  women,"  I  suggested,  "do  they  marry  their 
ideals  ?" 

He  laughed.     "Ask  them." 

"The  difference  between  men  and  women,"  he  con- 
tinued, "is  very  slight;  we  exaggerate  it  for  purposes  of 
art.  What  sort  of  man  do  you  suppose  he  is,  Norah's 
ideal?  Can't  you  imagine  him? — But  I  can  tell  you  the 
type  of  man  she  will  marry,  ay,  and  love  with  all  her 
heart." 

He  looked  at  me  from  under  his  strong  brows  drawn 
down,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"A  nice  enough  fellow — clever,  perhaps,  but  someone 
— well,  someone  who  will  want  looking  after,  taking  care 
of,  managing;  someone  who  will  appeal  to  the  mother 
side  of  her — not  her  ideal  man,  but  the  man  for  whom 
nature  intended  her." 

"Perhaps  with  her  help,"  I  said,  "he  may  in  time  be- 
come her  ideal." 

"There's  a  long  road  before  him,"  growled  Dan. 

It  was  Norah  herself  who  broke  to  me  the  news  of 
Barbara's  elopment  with  Hal.  I  had  seen  neither  of 
them  since  my  return  to  London.  Old  Hasluck  a  month 
or  so  before  I  had  met  in  the  City  one  day  by  chance,  and 
he  had  insisted  on  my  lunching  with  him.  I  had  found 
him  greatly  changed.  His  buoyant  self-assurance  had 
deserted  him ;  in  its  place  a  fretful  eagerness  had  become 
his  motive  force.  At  first  he  had  talked  boastingly :  Had 
I  seen  the  Post  for  last  Monday,  the  Court  Circular  for 
the  week  before?    Had  I  read  that  Barbara  had  danced 


402  Paul  Kelver 

with  the  Crown  Prince,  that  the  Count  and  Countess 
Huescar  had  been  entertaining  a  Grand  Duke?  What 
of  the  world?  Ay,  and  the  nobs  should  be  made  to 
I  think  of  that!  and  such  like.  Was  not  money  master 
of  the  world?  Ay,  and  the  nobs  should  be  made  to 
acknowledge  it! 

But  as  he  had  gulped  down  glass  after  glass  the  brag 
had  died  away. 

"No  children,"  he  had  whispered  to  me  across  the 
table;  "that's  what  I  can't  understand.  Nearly  four 
years  and  no  children!  What'll  be  the  good  of  it  all? 
Where  do  /  come  in?  What  do  /  get?  Damn  these 
rotten  popinjays!  What  do  they  think  we  buy  them 
for?" 

It  was  in  the  studio  on  a  Monday  morning  that  Norah 
told  me.  It  was  the  talk  of  the  town  for  the  next  day — 
and  the  following  eight.  She  had  heard  it  the  evening 
before  at  supper,  and  had  written  to  me  to  come  and 
see  her. 

"I  thought  you  would  rather  hear  it  quietly,"  said 
Norah,  "than  learn  it  from  a  newspaper  paragraph.  Be- 
sides, I  wanted  to  tell  you  this.  She  did  wrong  when 
she  married,  putting  aside  love  for  position.  Now  she 
has  done  right.  She  has  put  aside  her  shame  with  all 
the  advantages  she  derived  from  it.  She  has  proved 
herself  a  woman :  I  respect  her." 

Norah  would  not  have  said  that  to  please  me  had  she 
not  really  thought  it.  I  could  see  it  from  that  light ;  but 
it  brought  me  no  comfort.  My  goddess  had  a  heart,  pas- 
sions, was  a  mere  human  creature  like  myself.  From 
her  cold  throne  she  had  stepped  down  to  mingle  with 
the  world.  So  some  youthful  page  of  Arthur's  court 
may  have  felt,  learning  the  Great  Queen  was  but  a 
woman. 

I  never  spoke  with  her  again  but  once.  That  was  an 
evening  three  years  later  in  Brussels.  Strolling  idly  after 
dinner,  the  bright  lights  of  a  theatre  invited  me  to  enter. 


The  Princess  of  the  Golden  Locks     403 

It  was  somewhat  late ;  the  second  act  had  commenced.  I 
sHpped  quietly  into  my  seat,  the  only  one  vacant  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  front  row  of  the  first  range;  then, 
looking  down  upon  the  stage,  met  her  eyes.     A  little  later 

an  attendant  whispered  to  me  that  Madame  G would 

like  to  see  me ;  so  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain  I  went  round. 
Two  men  were  in  the  dressing-room  smoking,  and  on 
the  table  were  some  bottles  of  champagne.  She  was 
standing  before  her  glass,  a  loose  shawl  about  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"Excuse  my  shaking  hands,"  she  said.  "This  damned 
hole  is  like  a  furnace;  I  have  to  make  up  fresh  after 
each  act." 

She  held  them  up  for  my  inspection  with  a  laugh; 
they  were  smeared  with  grease. 

"D'you  know  my  husband?"  she  continued.  "Baron 
G ;  Mr.  Paul  Kelver." 

The  Baron  rose.  He  was  a  red-faced,  pot-bellied  little 
man.  "Delighted  to  meet  Mr.  Kelver,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing in  excellent  English.  "Any  friend  of  my  wife's  is 
always  a  friend  of  mine." 

He  held  out  his  fat,  perspiring  hand.  I  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  attach  much  importance  to  ceremony.  I  bowed 
and  turned  away,  careless  whether  he  was  offended  or 
not. 

"I  am  glad  I  saw  you,"  she  continued.  "Do  you  re- 
member a  girl  called  Barbara  ?  You  and  she  were  rather 
chums,  years  ago." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  remember  her." 

"Well,  she  died,  poor  girl,  three  years  ago."  She  was 
rubbing  paint  into  her  cheeks  as  she  spoke.  "She  asked 
me  if  ever  I  saw  you  to  give  you  this.  I  have  been  car- 
rying it  about  with  me  ever  since." 

She  took  a  ring  from  her  finger.  It  was  the  one  ring 
Barbara  had  worn  as  a  girl,  a  chrysolite  set  plainly  in  a 
band  of  gold.  I  had  noticed  it  upon  her  hand  the  first 
time  I  had  seen  her,  sitting  in  my  father's  office  framed 


404  Paul  Kelver 

by  the  dusty  books  and  papers.  She  dropped  it  into  my 
outstretched  palm. 

''Quite  a  pretty  little  romance,"  laughed  the  Baron. 

"That's  all,"  added  the  woman  at  the  glass.  "She 
said  you  would  understand." 

From  under  her  painted  lashes  she  flashed  a  glance  at 
me.  I  hope  never  to  see  again  that  look  upon  a  woman's 
face. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  "Yes,  I  understand.  It  was 
very  kind  of  you.     I  shall  always  wear  it." 

Placing  the  ring  upon  my  finger,  I  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   X. 

PAUL  FINDS  HIS  WAY. 

Slowly,  surely,  steadily  I  climbed,  putting  aside  all 
dreams,  paying  strict  attention  to  business.  Often  my 
other  self,  little  Paul  of  the  sad  eyes,  would  seek  to  lure 
me  from  my  work.  But  for  my  vehement  determination 
never  to  rest  for  a  moment  till  I  had  purchased  back  my 
honesty,  my  desire — growing  day  by  day,  till  it  became 
almost  a  physical  hunger — to  feel  again  the  pressure  of 
Norah's  strong  white  hand  in  mine,  he  might  possibly 
have  succeeded.  Heaven  only  knows  what  then  he 
might  have  made  of  me :  politician,  minor  poet,  more  or 
less  able  editor,  hampered  by  convictions — something 
most  surely  of  but  little  service  to  myself.  Now  and 
again,  with  a  week  to  spare — my  humour  making  holi- 
day, nothing  to  be  done  but  await  patiently  its  return — I 
would  write  stories  for  my  own  pleasure.  They  made 
no  mark;  but  success  in  purposeful  work  is  of  slower 
growth.  Had  I  persisted — but  there  was  money  to  be 
earned.  And  by  the  time  my  debts  were  paid,  I  had 
established  a  reputation. 

"Madness!''  argued  practical  friends.  "You  would 
be  throwing  away  a  certain  fortune  for,  at  the  best,  a 
doubtful  competence.  The  one  you  know  you  can  do, 
the  other — it  would  be  beginning  your  career  all  over 
again. '* 

"You  would  find  it  almost  impossible  now,"  explained 
those  who  spoke,  I  knew,  words  of  wisdom,  of  experi- 
ence. "The  world  would  never  listen  to  you.  Once  a 
humourist  always  a  humourist.  As  well  might  a  comic 
actor  insist  upon  playing  Hamlet.     It  might  be  the  best 


4o6  Paul  Kelver 

Hamlet  ever  seen  upon  the  stage;  the  audience  would 
only  laugh — or  stop  away." 

Drawn  by  our  mutual  need  of  sympathy,  "Goggles" 
and  I,  seeking  some  quiet  corner  in  the  Club,  would  pour 
out  our  souls  to  each  other.  He  would  lay  before  me, 
at  some  length,  his  conception  of  Romeo — an  excellent 
conception,  I  have  no  doubt,  though  I  confess  it  failed  to 
interest  me.  Somehow  I  could  not  picture  him  to  myself 
as  Romeo.  But  I  listened  with  every  sign  of  encourage- 
ment. It  was  the  price  I  paid  him  for,  in  turn,  listening 
to  me  while  I  unfolded  to  him  my  ideas  how  monumental 
literature,  helpful  to  mankind,  should  be  imagined  and 
built  up. 

"Perhaps  in  a  future  existence,"  laughed  Goggles,  one 
evening,  rising  as  the  clock  struck  seven,  "I  shall  be  a 
great  tragedian,  and  you  a  famous  poet.  Meanwhile,  I 
suppose,  as  your  friend  Brian  puts  it,  we  are  both  sinning 
our  mercies.  After  all,  to  live  is  the  most  important 
thing  in  life." 

I  had  strolled  with  him  so  far  as  the  cloak-room  and 
was  helping  him  to  get  into  his  coat. 

"Take  my  advice" — tapping  me  on  the  chest,  he  fixed 
his  funny,  fishy  eyes  upon  me.  Had  I  not  known  his  in- 
tention to  be  serious,  I  should  have  laughed,  his  expres- 
sion was  so  comical.  "Marry  some  dear  little  woman" 
(he  was  married  himself  to  a  placid  lady  of  about  twice 
his  own  weight)  ;  "one  never  understands  life  properly 
till  the  babies  come  to  explain  it  to  one." 

I  returned  to  my  easy-chair  before  the  fire.  Wife, 
children,  home !  After  all,  was  not  that  the  true  work  of 
man — of  the  live  man^  not  the  dreamer?  I  saw  them 
round  me,  giving  to  my  life  dignity,  responsibility.  The 
fair,  sweet  woman,  helper,  comrade,  comforter,  the  little 
faces  fashioned  in  our  image,  their  questioning  voices 
teaching  us  the  answers  to  life's  riddles.  All  other  hopes, 
ambitions,  dreams,  what  were  they?  Phantoms  of  the 
morning  mist  fading  in  the  sunlight. 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  407 

Hodgson  came  to  me  one  evening.  "I  want  you  to 
write  me  a  comic  opera,"  he  said.  He  had  an  open  letter 
in  his  hand  which  he  was  reading.  "The  public  seem  to 
be  getting  tired  of  these  eternal  translations  from  the 
French.  I  want  something  English,  something  new  and 
original." 

**The  English  is  easy  enough/'  I  replied;  "but  I 
shouldn't  clamour  for  anything  new  and  original  if  I 
were  you." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  looking  up  from  his  letter. 

"You  might  get  it,"  I  answered.  "Then  you  would 
be  disappointed." 

He  laughed.  "Well,  you  know  what  I  mean — some- 
thing we  could  refer  to  as  'new  and  original'  on  the 
programme.  What  do  you  say?  It  will  be  a  big  chance 
for  you,  and  I'm  willing  to  risk  it.  I'm  sure  you  can  do 
it.     People  are  beginning  to  talk  about  you." 

I  had  written  a  few  farces,  comediettas,  and  they  had 
been  successful.  But  the  chief  piece  of  the  evening  is  a 
serious  responsibility.  A  young  man  may  be  excused 
for  hesitating.  It  can  make,  but  also  it  can  mar  him.  A 
comic  opera  above  all  other  forms  of  art — if  I  may  be 
forgiven  for  using  the  sacred  word  in  connection  with 
such  a  subject — demands  experience. 

I  explained  my  fears.  I  did  not  explain  that  in  my 
desk  lay  a  four-act  drama  throbbing  with  humanity,  with 
life,  with  which  it  had  been  my  hope — growing  each 
day  fainter — to  take  the  theatrical  public  by  storm,  to 
establish  myself  as  a  serious  playwright. 

"It's  very  simple,"  urged  Hodgson.  "Provide  Ather- 
ton  plenty  of  comic  business ;  you  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
that  all  right.  Give  Gleeson  something  pretty  in  waltz 
time,  and  Duncan  a  part  in  which  she  can  change  her 
frock  every  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  and  the  thing  is 
done." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  continued  Hodgson,  "I'll  take  the 
whole  crowd  down  to  Richmond  on  Sunday.     We'll  have 


4o8  Paul  Kelver 

a  coach,  and  leave  the  theatre  at  half-past  ten.  It  will 
be  an  oportunity  for  you  to  study  them.  You'll  be  able  to 
have  a  talk  with  them  and  get  to  know  just  what  they 
can  do.  Atherton  has  ideas  in  his  head;  he'll  explain 
them  to  you.  Then,  next  week,  we'll  draw  up  a  contract 
and  set  to  work." 

It  was  too  good  an  opportunity  to  let  slip,  though  I 
knew  that  if  successful  I  should  find  myself  pinned  down 
firmer  than  ever  to  my  role  of  jester.  But  it  is  remunera- 
tive, the  writing  of  comic  opera. 

A  small  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  Strand  to  see  us 
start. 

"Nothing  wrong,  is  there?"  enquired  the  leading  lady, 
in  a  tone  of  some  anxiety,  alighting  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
late  from  her  cab.     ''It  isn't  a  fire,  is  it?" 

"Merely  assembled  to  see  you,"  explained  Mr.  Hodg- 
son, without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  letters. 

"Oh,  good  gracious !"  cried  the  leading  lady,  "do  let  us 
get  away  quickly." 

"Box  seat,  my  dear,"  returned  Mr.  Hodgson. 

The  leading  lady,  accepting  the  profifered  assistance  of 
myself  and  three  other  gentlemen,  mounted  the  ladder 
with  charming  hesitation.  Some  delay  in  getting  off  was 
caused  by  our  low  comedian,  who  twice,  making  believe 
to  miss  his  footing,  slid  down  again  into  the  arms  of  the 
stolid  door-keeper.  The  crowd,  composed  for  the  most 
part  of  small  boys  approving  the  endeavour  to  amuse 
them,  laughed  and  applauded.  Our  low  comedian  thus 
encouraged,  made  a  third  attempt  upon  his  hands  and 
knees,  and,  gaining  the  roof,  sat  down  upon  the  tenor, 
who  smiled  somewhat  mechanically. 

The  first  dozen  or  so  'busses  we  passed  our  low  come- 
dian greeted  by  rising  to  his  feet  and  bowing  profoundly, 
afterwards  falling  back  upon  either  the  tenor  or  myself. 
Except  by  the  tenor  and  myself  his  performance  appeared 
to  be  much  appreciated.     Charing  Cross  passed,  and  no- 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  409 

body  seeming  to  be  interested  in  our  progress,  to  the 
relief  of  the  tenor  and  myself,  he  settled  down. 

'Teople  sometimes  ask  me,"  said  the  low  comedian, 
brushing  the  dust  off  his  knees,  "why  I  do  this  sort  of 
thing  off  the  stage.     It  amuses  me." 

"I  was  coming  up  to  London  the  other  day  from  Bir- 
mingham," he  continued.  "At  Willesden,  when  the  ticket 
collector  opened  the  door,  I  sprang  out  of  the  carriage 
and  ran  off  down  the  platform.  Of  course,  he  ran  after 
me,  shouting  to  all  the  others  to  stop  me.  I  dodged  them 
for  about  a  minute.  You  wouldn't  believe  the  excitement 
there  was.  Quite  fifty  people  left  their  seats  to  see  what 
it  was  all  about.  I  explained  to  them  when  they  caught 
me  that  I  had  been  travelling  second  with  a  first-class 
ticket,  which  was  the  fact.  People  think  I  do  it  to  attract 
attention.     I  do  it  for  my  own  pleasure." 

"It  must  be  a  troublesome  way  of  amusing  oneself,"  I 
suggested. 

"Exactly  what  my  wife  says,"  he  replied;  "she  can 
never  understand  the  desire  that  comes  over  us  all,  I  sup- 
pose, at  times,  to  play  the  fool.  As  a  rule,  when  she  is 
with  me  I  don't  do  it." 

"She's  not  here  to-day?"  I  asked,  glancing  round. 

"She  suffers  so  from  headaches,"  he  answered,  "she 
hardly  ever  goes  anywhere." 

"I'm  sorry."  I  spoke  not  out  of  mere  politeness;  I 
really  did  feel  sorry. 

During  the  drive  to  Richmond  this  irrepressible  desire 
to  amuse  himself  got  the  better  of  him  more  than  once  or 
twice.  Through  Kensington  he  attracted  a  certain 
amount  of  attention  by  balancing  the  horn  upon  his  nose. 
At  Kew  he  stopped  the  coach  to  request  of  a  young 
ladies'  boarding  school  change  for  sixpence.  At  the  foot 
of  Richmond  Hill  he  caused  a  crowd  to  assemble  while 
trying  to  persuade  a  deaf  old  gentleman  in  a  Bath-chair 
to  allow  his  man  to  race  us  up  the  hill  for  a  shilling. 


^ 


41  o  Paul  Kelver 

At  these  antics  and  such  like  our  party  laughed  up- 
roariously, with  the  exception  of  Hodgson,  who  had  his 
correspondence  to  attend  to,  and  an  elegant  young  lady  of 
some  social  standing  who  had  lately  emerged  from  the 
Divorce  Court  with  a  reputation  worth  to  her  in  cash  a 
hundred  pounds  a  week. 

Arriving  at  the  hotel  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  before 
lunch  time,  we  strolled  into  the  garden.  Our  low  come- 
dian, observing  an  elderly  gentleman  of  dignified  appear- 
ance sipping  a  glass  of  Vermouth  at  a  small  table,  stood 
for  a  moment  rooted  to  the  earth  with  astonishment,  then, 
making  a  bee-line  for  the  stranger,  seized  and  shook 
him  warmly  by  the  hand.  We  exchanged  admiring 
glances  with  one  another. 

"Charlie  is  in  good  form  to-day,"  we  told  one  another, 
and  followed  at  his  heels. 

The  elderly  gentleman  had  risen ;  he  looked  puzzled. 

"And  how's  Aunt  Martha?"  asked  him  our  low  come- 
dian. "Dear  old  Aunt  Martha !  Well,  I  am  glad !  You 
do  look  bonny !     How  is  she  ?" 

"I'm  afraid — "  commenced  the  elderly  gentleman. 

Our  low  comedian  started  back.  Other  visitors  had 
gathered  round. 

"Don't  tell  me  anything  has  happened  to  her!  Not 
dead  ?    Don't  tell  me  that !" 

He  seized  the  bewildered  gentleman  by  the  shoulders 
and  presented  to  him  a  face  distorted  by  terror. 

"I  really  have  not  the  faintest  notion  what  you  are 
talking  about,"  returned  the  gentleman,  who  seemed  an- 
noyed.    "I  don't  know  you." 

"Not  know  me?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  for- 
gotten— ?     Isn't  your  name  Steggles?" 

"No,  it  isn't,"  returned  the  stranger,  somewhat 
shortly. 

"My  mistake,"  replied  our  low  comedian.  He  tossed 
off  at  one  gulp  what  remained  of  the  stranger's  Vermouth 
and  walked  away  rapidly. 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  411 

The  elderly  gentleman,  not  seeing  the  humour  of  the 
joke,  one  of  our  party  to  soothe  him  explained  to  him  that 
it  was  Atherton,  the  Atherton — Charlie  Atherton. 

"Oh,  is  it,"growled  the  elderly  gentleman.  "Then  will 
you  tell  him  from  me  that  when  I  want  his  damned  tom- 
foolery I'll  come  to  the  theatre  and  pay  for  it." 

"What  a  disagreeable  man,"  we  said,  as,  following  our 
low  comedian,  we  made  our  way  into  the  hotel. 

During  lunch  he  continued  in  excellent  spirits;  kissed 
the  bald  back  of  the  waiter's  head,  pretending  to  mistake 
it  for  a  face,  called  for  hot  mustard  and  water,  made  be- 
lieve to  steal  the  silver,  and  when  the  finger-bowls  ar- 
rived, took  off  his  coat  and  requested  the  ladies  to  look 
the  other  way. 

After  lunch  he  became  suddenly  serious,  and  slip- 
ping his  arm  through  mine,  led  me  by  unfrequented 
paths. 

"Now,  about  this  new  opera,"  he  said;  "we  don't 
want  any  of  the  old  stale  business.  Give  us  something 
new." 

I  suggested  that  to  do  so  might  be  difficult. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "Now,  my  idea  is  this.  I 
am  a  young  fellow,  and  I'm  in  love  with  a  girl." 

I  promised  to  make  a  note  of  it. 

"Her  father,  apopletic  old  idiot — make  him  comic: 
'Damme,  sir !     By  gad !'  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

By  persuading  him  that  I  understood  what  he  meant,  I 
rose  in  his  estimation. 

"He  won't  have  anything  to  say  to  me — thinks  I'm  an 
ass.  I'm  a  simple  sort  of  fellow — on  the  outside.  But 
I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  I  look." 

"You  don't  think  we  are  getting  too  much  out  of  the 
groove?"  I  enquired. 

His  opinion  was  that  the  more  so  the  better. 

"Very  well.  Then,  in  the  second  act  I  disguise  my- 
self. I'll  come  on  as  an  organ-grinder,  sing  a  song  in 
broken  English,  then  as  a  policeman,  or  a  young  swell 


412  Paul  Kelver 

about  town.  Give  me  plenty  of  opportunity,  that*s  the 
great  thing — opportunity  to  be  really  funny,  I  mean.  Wc 
don't  want  any  of  the  old  stale  tricks." 

I  promised  him  my  support. 

"Put  a  little  pathos  in  it,"  he  added,  "give  me  a  scene 
where  I  can  show  them  I've  something  else  in  me  besides 
merely  humour.  We  don't  want  to  make  them  howl,  but 
just  to  feel  a  little.  Let's  send  them  out  of  the  theatre 
saying:  'Well,  Charlie's  often  made  me  laugh,  but  I'm 
damned  if  I  knew  he  could  make  me  cry  before!'  See 
what  I  mean?" 

I  told  him  I'thought  I  did. 

The  leading  lady,  meeting  us  on  our  return,  requested, 
with  pretty  tone  of  authority,  everybody  else  to  go  away 
and  leave  us.  There  were  cries  of  "Naughty!"  The 
leading  lady,  laughing  girlishly,  took  me  by  the  hand  and 
ran  away  with  me. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  the  leading  lady,  as  soon 
as  we  had  reached  a  secluded  seat  overlooking  the  river, 
"about  my  part  in  the  new  opera.  Now,  can't  you  give 
me  something  original?    Do." 

Her  pleading  was  so  pretty,  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  pledge  compliance. 

"I  am  so  tired  of  being  the  simple  village  maiden,"  said 
the  leading  lady ;  "what  I  want  is  a  part  with  some  oppor- 
tunity in  it — a  coquettish  part.  I  can  flirt,"  assured  me 
the  leading  lady,  archly.     "Try  me." 

I  satisfied  her  of  my  perfect  faith. 

"You  might,"  said  the  leading  lady,  "see  your  way  to 
making  the  plot  depend  upon  me.  It  always  seems  to  me 
that  the  woman's  part  is  never  made  enough  of  in  comic 
opera.  I  am  sure  a  comic  opera  built  round  a  woman 
would  be  a  really  great  success.  Don't  you  agree  with 
me,  Mr.  Kelver,"  pouted  the  leading  lady,  laying  her 
pretty  hand  on  mine.  "We  are  much  more  interesting 
than  the  men — now,  aren't  we?" 

Personally,  as  I  told  her,  I  agreed  with  her. 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  413 

The  tenor,  sipping  tea  with  me  on  the  balcony,  beck- 
oned me  aside. 

"About  this  new  opera,"  said  the  tenor;  "doesn't  it 
seem  to  you  the  time  has  come  to  make  more  of  the 
story — that  the  public  might  prefer  a  little  more  human 
interest  and  a  little  less  clowning?" 

I  admitted  that  a  good  plot  was  essential. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  tenor,  "that  if  you  could 
write  an  opera  round  an  interesting  love  story,  you  would 
score  a  success.  Of  course,  let  there  be  plenty  of  humour, 
but  reduce  it  to  its  proper  place.  As  a  support,  it  is  ex- 
cellent; when  it  is  made  the  entire  structure,  it  is  apt  to 
be  tiresome — at  least,  that  is  my  view." 

I  replied  with  sincerity  that  there  seemed  to  me  much 
truth  in  what  he  said. 

"Of  course,  so  far  as  I  am  personally  concerned,"  went 
on  the  tenor,  "it  is  immaterial.  I  draw  the  same  salary 
whether  Fm  on  the  stage  five  minutes  or  an  hour.  But 
when  you  have  a  man  of  my  position  in  the  cast,  and 
give  him  next  to  nothing  to  do — well,  the  public  are 
disappointed." 

"Most  naturally,"  I  commented. 

"The  lover,"  whispered  the  tenor,  noticing  the  careless 
approach  towards  us  of  the  low  comedian,  "that's  the 
character  they  are  thinking  about  all  the  time — men  and 
women  both.  It's  human  nature.  Make  your  lover  in- 
teresting— that's  the  secret." 

Waiting  for  the  horses  to  be  put  to,  I  became  aware  of 
the  fact  that  I  was  standing  some  distance  from  the 
others  in  company  with  a  tall,  thin,  somewhat  oldish-look- 
ing man.  He  spoke  in  low,  hurried  tones,  fearful  evi- 
dently of  being  overheard  and  interrupted. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  Mr.  Kelver,"  he  said — "Trevor, 
Marmaduke  Trevor.  I  play  the  Duke  of  Bayswater  in 
the  second  act." 

I  was  unable  to  recall  him  for  the  moment ;  there  were 
quite  a  number  of  small  parts  in  the  second  act.     But 


414  P^^l  Kelver 

glancing  into  his  sensitive  face,  I  shrank  from  wounding 
him. 

"A  capital  performance,"  I  lied.  "It  has  always 
amused  me." 

He  flushed  with  pleasure.  "I  made  a  great  success 
some  years  ago,"  he  said,  "in  America  with  a  soda-water 
syphon,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  you  could,  Mr.  Kel- 
ver, in  a  natural  sort  of  way,  drop  in  a  small  part  leading 
up  to  a  little  business  with  a  soda-water  syphon,  it  might 
help  the  piece." 

I  wrote  him  his  soda-water  scene,  I  am  glad  to  remem- 
ber, and  insisted  upon  it,  in  spite  of  a  good  deal  of  oppo- 
sition. Some  of  the  critics  found  fault  with  the  incident, 
as  lacking  in  originality.  But  Marmaduke  Trevor  was 
quite  right,  it  did  help  a  little. 

Our  return  journey  was  an  exaggerated  repetition  of 
our  morning  drive.  Our  low  comedian  produced  hideous 
noises  from  the  horn,  and  entered  into  contests  of  run- 
ning wit  with  'bus  drivers — a  decided  mistake  from  his 
point  of  view,  the  score  generally  remaining  with  the  'bus 
driver.  At  Hammersmith,  seizing  the  opportunity  of  a 
block  in  the  traffic,  he  assumed  the  role  of  Cheap  Jack, 
and,  standing  up  on  the  back  seat,  offered  all  our  hats 
for  sale  at  temptingly  low  prices. 

"Got  any  ideas  out  of  them?"  asked  Hodgson,  when 
the  time  came  for  us  to  say  good-night. 

"I'm  thinking,  if  you  don't  mind,"  I  answered,  "of 
going  down  into  the  country  and  writing  the  piece  quietly, 
away  from  everybody." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  agreed  Hodgson.  "Too 
many  cooks —  Be  sure  and  have  it  ready  for  the  au- 
tumn." 

I  wrote  it  with  some  pleasure  to  myself  amid  the  York- 
shire Wolds,  and  was  able  to  read  it  to  the  whole  com- 
pany assembled  before  the  close  of  the  season.  My  turn- 
ing of  the  last  page  was  followed  by  a  dead  silence.  The 
leading  lady  was  the  first  to  speak.     She  asked  if  the 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  415 

dock  upon  the  mantelpiece  could  be  relied  upon;  be- 
cause, if  so,  by  leaving  at  once,  she  could  just  catch  her 
train.  Hodgson,  consulting  his  watch,  thought,  if  any- 
thing, it  was  a  little  fast.  The  leading  lady  said  she 
hoped  it  was,  and  went.  The  only  comforting  words 
were  spoken  by  the  tenor.  He  recalled  to  our  mind  a 
successful  comic  opera  produced  some  years  before  at  the 
Philharmonic.  He  distinctly  remembered  that  up  to  five 
minutes  before  the  raising  of  the  curtain  everybody  had 
regarded  it  as  rubbish.  He  also  had  a  train  to  catch. 
Marmaduke  Trevor,  with  a  covert  shake  of  the  hand, 
urged  me  not  to  despair.  The  low  comedian,  the  last  to 
go,  told  Hodgson  he  thought  he  might  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing with  parts  of  it,  if  given  a  free  hand.  Hodgson 
and  I  left  alone,  looked  at  each  other. 

"It's  no  good,"  said  Hodgson,  ''from  a  box-office  point 
of  view.     Very  clever." 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  no  good  from  a  box-office 
point  of  view?"  I  ventured  to  enquire. 

'T  never  made  a  mistake  in  my  life,"  replied  Hodgson. 

"You  have  produced  one  or  two  failures,"  I  reminded 
him. 

"And  shall  again,"  he  laughed.  "The  right  thing  isn't 
easy  to  get." 

"Cheer  up,"  he  added  kindly,  "this  is  only  your  first 
attempt.  We  must  try  and  knock  it  into  shape  at  re- 
hearsal." 

Their  notion  of  "knocking  it  into  shape"  was  knocking 
it  to  pieces. 

"Fll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  would  say  the  low  come- 
dian ;  "we'll  cut  that  scene  out  altogether."  Joyously  he 
would  draw  his  pencil  through  some  four  or  five  pages 
of  my  manuscript. 

"But  it  is  essential  to  the  story,"  I  would  argue. 

"Not  at  all." 

"But  it  is.  It  is  the  scene  in  which  Roderick  escapes 
from  prison  and  falls  in  love  with  the  gipsy." 


41 6  Paul  Kelver 

"My  dear  boy,  half-a-dozen  words  will  do  all  that.  I 
meet  Roderick  at  the  ball.  'Hallo,  what  are  you  do- 
ing here?'  'Oh,  I  have  escaped  from  prison.'  'Good 
business.  And  how's  Miriam?'  'Well  and  happy — 
she  is  going  to  be  my  wife!'  What  more  do  you 
want?" 

"I  have  been  speaking  to  Mr.  Hodgson,"  would  ob- 
serve the  leading  lady,  "and  he  agrees  with  me,  that  if  in- 
stead of  falling  in  love  with  Peter,  I  fell  in  love  with 
John " 

"But  John  is  in  love  with  Arabella." 

"Oh,  we've  cut  out  Arabella.  I  can  sing  all  her 
songs." 

The  tenor  would  lead  me  into  a  corner.  "I  want  you 
to  write  in  a  Httle  scene  for  myself  and  Miss  Duncan  at 
the  beginning  of  the  first  act.  I'll  talk  to  her  about  it. 
I  think  it  will  be  rather  pretty.  I  want  her — ^the  sec- 
ond time  I  see  her — to  have  come  out  of  her  room  on 
to  a  balcony,  and  to  be  standing  there  bathed  in  moon- 
light." 

"But  the  first  act  takes  place  in  the  early  morning." 

"I've  thought  of  that.  We  must  alter  it  to  the  even- 
ing." 

"But  the  opera  opens  with  a  hunting  scene.  People 
don't  go  hunting  by  moonlight." 

"It  will  be  a  novelty.  That's  what's  wanted  for  comic 
opera.  The  ordinary  hunting  scene!  My  dear  boy,  it 
has  been  done  to  death." 

I  stood  this  sort  of  thing  for  a  week.  "They  are  people 
of  experience,"  I  argued  to  myself;  "they  must  know 
more  about  it  than  I  do."  By  the  end  of  the  week  I  had 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  anyhow  they  didn't.  Added 
to  which  I  lost  my  temper.  It  is  a  thing  I  should  advise^ 
any  lady  or  gentleman  thinking  of  entering  the  ranks  oi" 
dramatic  authorship  to  lose  as  soon  as  possible.  I  took 
both  manuscripts  with  me,  and,  entering  Mr.  Hodgson's 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  417 

private  room,  closed  the  door  behind  me.  One  parcel 
was  the  opera  as  I  had  originally  written  it,  a  neat,  in- 
telligible manuscript,  whatever  its  other  merits.  The 
second,  scored,  interlined,  altered,  cut,  interleaved,  re- 
written, reversed,  turned  inside  out  and  topsy-turvy — one 
long,  hopeless  confusion  from  beginning  to  end — was  the 
opera,  as,  everybody  helping,  we  had  "knocked  it  into 
shape." 

"That's  your  opera,"  I  said,  pushing  across  to  him 
the  bulkier  bundle.  "If  you  can  understand  it,  if  you 
can  make  head  or  tail  of  it,  if  you  care  to  produce  it,  it 
is  yours,  and  you  are  welcome  to  it.  This  is  mine!"  I 
laid  it  on  the  table  beside  the  other.  "It  may  be  good,  it 
may  be  bad.  If  it  is  played  at  all  it  is  played  as  it  is 
written.  Regard  the  contract  as  cancelled,  and  make  up 
your  mind." 

He  argued  with  force,  and  he  argued  with  eloquence. 
He  appealed  to  my  self-interest,  he  appealed  to  my  better 
nature.  It  occupied  him  forty  minutes  by  the  clock. 
Then  he  called  me  an  obstinate  young  fool,  flung  the 
opera  as  "knocked  into  shape"  into  the  waste-paper 
basket — which  was  the  only  proper  place  for  it,  and, 
striding  into  the  middle  of  the  company,  gave  curt  direc- 
tions that  the  damned  opera  was  to  be  played  as  it  was 
written,  and  be  damned  to  it! 

The  company  shrugged  its  shoulders,  and  for  the  next 
month  kept  them  shrugged.  For  awhile  Hodgson  re- 
mained away  from  the  rehearsals,  then  returning,  de- 
veloped by  degrees  a  melancholy  interest  in  the  some- 
what gloomy  proceedings. 

So  far  I  had  won,  but  my  difficulty  was  to  maintain 
the  position.  The  low  comedian,  reciting  his  lines  with 
meaningless  monotony,  would  pause  occasionally  to  ask 
of  me  politely,  whether  this  or  that  passage  was  intended 
to  be  serious  or  funny. 

"You  think,"  the  leading  lady  would  enquire,  more  in 


41 8  Paul  Kelver 

sorrow  than  in  anger,  "that  any  girl  would  behave  in  this 
way — any  real  girl,  I  mean?" 

*' Perhaps  the  audience  will  understand  it,"  would  con- 
sole himself  hopefully  the  tenor.  ''Myself,  I  confess  I 
don't." 

With  a  sinking  heart  concealed  beneath  an  aggressive- 
ly disagreeable  manner,  I  remained  firm  in  my  "pig- 
headed conceit,"  as  it  was  regarded,  Hodgson  generously 
supporting  me  against  his  own  judgment. 

"It's  bound  to  be  a  failure,"  he  told  me.  "I  am  spend- 
ing some  twelve  to  fifteen  hundred  pounds  to  teach  you 
a  lesson.  When  you  have  learnt  it  we'll  square  accounts 
by  your  writing  me  an  opera  that  will  pay." 

"And  if  it  does  succeed  ?"  I  suggested. 

"My  dear  boy,"  replied  Hodgson,  "I  never  make  mis- 
takes." 

From  all  which  a  dramatic  author  of  more  experience 
would  have  gathered  cheerfulness  and  hope,  knowing 
that  the  time  to  be  depressed  is  when  the  manager  and 
company  unanimously  and  unhesitatingly  predict  a  six 
months'  run.  But  new  to  the  business,  I  regarded  my 
literary  career  as  already  at  an  end.  Belief  in  oneself  is 
merely  the  match  with  which  one  lights  oneself.  The 
oil  is  supplied  by  the  belief  in  one  of  others;  if  that  be 
not  forthcoming,  one  goes  out.  Later  on  I  might  try 
to  light  myself  again,  but  for  the  present  I  felt  myself 
dark  and  dismal.  My  desire  was  to  get  away  from  my 
own  smoke  and  smell.  The  final  dress  rehearsal  over,  I 
took  my  leave  of  all  concerned.  The  next  morning  I 
would  pack  a  knapsack  and  start  upon  a  walking  tour 
through  Holland.  The  English  papers  would  not  reach 
me.  No  human  being  should  know  my  address.  In  a 
month  or  so  I  would  return,  the  piece  would  have  disap- 
peared— would  be  forgotten.  With  courage,  I  might  be 
able  to  forget  it  myself. 

"I  shall  run  it  for  three  weeks,"  said  Hodgson,  "then 
we'll  withdraw  it  quietly,  'owing  to  previous  arrange- 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  419 

ments';  or  Duncan  can  suddenly  fall  ill — she's  done  it 
often  enough  to  suit  herself;  she  can  do  it  this  once  to 
suit  me.  Don't  be  upset.  There's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  the  piece;  indeed,  there  is  a  good  deal 
that  will  be  praised.  The  idea  is  distinctly  original.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  that's  the  fault  with  it,"  added  Hodgson, 
"it's  too  original." 

"You  said  you  wanted  it  original,"  I  reminded  him. 

He  laughed.  "Yes,  but  original  for  the  stage,  I  meant 
— the  old  dolls  in  new  frocks." 

I  thanked  him  for  all  his  kindness,  and  went  home  and 
packed  my  knapsack. 

For  two  months  I  wandered,  avoiding  beaten  tracks, 
my  only  comrades  a  few  books,  belonging  to  no  age,  no 
country.  My  worries  fell  from  me,  the  personal  affairs 
of  Paul  Kelver  ceasing  to  appear  the  be  all  and  the  end 
all  of  the  universe.  But  for  a  chance  meeting  with  Well- 
bourne,  Deleglise's  amateur  caretaker  of  Gower  Street 
fame,  I  should  have  delayed  yet  longer  my  return.  It 
was  in  one  of  the  dead  cities  of  the  Zuyder  Zee.  I  was 
sitting  under  the  lindens  on  the  grass-grown  quay,  await- 
ing a  slow,  crawling  boat  that,  four  miles  off,  I  watched  a 
moving  speck  across  the  level  pastures.  I  heard  his  foot- 
steps in  the  empty  market-place  behind  me,  and  turned 
my  head.  I  did  not  rise,  felt  even  no  astonishment ;  any- 
thing might  come  to  pass  in  that  still  land  of  dreams.  He 
seated  himself  beside  me  with  a  nod,  and  for  awhile  we 
smoked  in  silence. 

"All  well  with  you?"  I  asked. 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  he  answered ;  "the  poor  fellow  is  in 
great  trouble." 

"I'm  not  Wellbourne  himself,"  he  went  on,  in  answer  to 
my  look;  "I  am  only  his  spirit.  Have  you  ever  tested 
that  belief  the  Hindoos  hold :  that  a  man  may  leave  his 
body,  wander  at  will  for  a  certain  period,  remembering 
only  to  return  ere  the  thread  connecting  him  with  flesh 
and  blood  be  stretched  to  breaking  point?     It  is  quite 


420  Paul  Kelver 

correct.  I  often  lock  the  door  of  my  lodging,  leave  my- 
self behind,  wander  a  free  Spirit." 

He  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of  loose  coins  and 
looked  at  them.  *'The  thread  that  connects  us,  I  am 
sorrow  to  say,  is  wearing  somewhat  thin,"  he  sighed; 
"I  shall  have  to  be  getting  back  to  him  before  long — 
concern  myself  again  with  his  troubles,  follies.  It  is 
somewhat  vexing.  Life  is  really  beautiful,  when  one  is 
dead." 

"What  was  the  trouble?"  I  enquired. 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  he  replied.  "Tom  died  five 
weeks  ago,  quite  suddenly,  of  syncope.  We  had  none  of 
us  any  idea." 

So  Norah  was  alone  in  the  world.  I  rose  to  my  feet. 
The  slowly  moving  speck  had  grown  into  a  thin,  dark 
streak ;  minute  by  minute  it  took  shape  and  form. 

"By  the  way,  I  have  to  congratulate  you,"  said  Well- 
bourne.  "Your  opera  looked  like  being  a  big  thing  when 
I  left  London.     You  didn't  sell  outright,  I  hope  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "Hodgson  never  expressed  any 
desire  to  buy." 

"Lucky  for  you,"  said  Wellboume. 

I  reached  London  the  next  evening.  Passing  the 
theatre  on  my  way  to  Queen's  Square,  it  occurred  to  me 
to  stop  my  cab  for  a  few  minutes  and  look  in. 

I  met  the  low  comedian  on  his  way  to  his  dressing- 
room.     He  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we're  pulling  them  in.  I  was 
right,  you  see,  'Give  me  plenty  of  opportunity.'  That's 
what  I  told  you,  didn't  I?  Come  and  see  the  piece.  I 
think  you  will  agree  with  me  that  I  have  done  you  jus- 
tice." 

I  thanked  him. 

*'Not  at  all,"  he  returned;  "it's  a  pleasure  to  work, 
when  you've  got  something  good  to  work  on." 

I  paid  my  resi>ects  to  the  leading  lady. 

"I  am  so  grateful  to  you,"  said  the  leading  lady. 


Paul  Finds  His  Way  421 

"It  is  so  delightful  to  play  a  real  live  woman,  for  a 
change." 

The  tenor  was  quite  fatherly. 

"It  is  what  I  have  been  telling  Hodgson  for  years,"  he 
said,  "give  them  a  simple  human  story." 

Crossing  the  stage,  I  ran  against  Marmaduke  Trevor. 

"You  will  stay  for  my  scene,"  he  urged. 

"Another  night,"  I  answered.  "I  have  only  just  re- 
turned." 

He  sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you 
on  business,  when  you  have  the  time.  I  am  thinking  of 
taking  a  theatre  myself — not  just  now,  but  later  on.  Of 
course,  I  don't  want  it  to  get  about." 

I  assured  him  of  my  secrecy. 

"If  it  comes  off,  I  want  you  to  write  for  me.  You 
understand  the  public.     We  will  talk  it  over." 

He  passed  onward  with  stealthy  tr^ad. 

I  found  Hodgson  in  the  front  of  the  house. 

"Two  stalls  not  sold  and  six  seats  in  the  upper  circle," 
he  informed  me ;  "not  bad  for  a  Thursday  night." 

I  expressed  my  gratification. 

"I  knew  you  could  do  it,"  said  Hodgson,  "I  felt  sure  of 
it  merely  from  seeing  that  comedietta  of  yours  at  the 
Queen's.     I  never  make  a  mistake." 

Correction  under  the  circumstances  would  have  been 
unkind.  Promising  to  see  him  again  in  the  morning,  I 
left  him  with  his  customary  good  conceit  of  himself  un- 
impaired, and  went  on  to  the  Square.  I  rang  twice,  but 
there  was  no  response.  I  was  about  to  sound  a  third 
and  final  summons,  when  Norah  joined  me  on  the  step. 
She  had  been  out  shopping  and  was  laden  with  parcels. 

"We  must  wait  to  shake  hands,"  she  laughed,  as  she 
opened  the  door.  "I  hope  you  have  not  been  kept  long. 
Poor  Annette  grows  deafer  every  day." 

"Have  you  nobody  in  the  house  with  you  but  Ann- 
ette?" I  asked. 

"No  one.    .You  know  it  was  a  whim  of  his.    I  used  to 


422  Paul  Kelver 

get  quite  cross  with  him  at  times.  But  I  should  not  like 
to  go  against  his  wishes — now." 

''Was  there  any  reason  for  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered;  "if  there  had  been  I  could  have 
argued  him  out  of  it."  She  paused  at  the  door  of  the 
studio.  "I'll  just  get  rid  of  these,"  she  said,  "and  then  I 
will  be  with  you." 

A  wood  fire  was  burning  on  the  open  hearth,  flashing 
alternate  beams  of  light  and  shadow  down  the  long  bare 
room.  The  high  oak  stool  stood  in  its  usual  place  beside 
the  engraving  desk,  upon  which  lay  old  Deleglise's  last 
unfinished  plate,  emitting  a  dull  red  glow.  I  paced  the 
creaking  boards  with  halting  steps,  as  through  some 
ghostly  gallery  hung  with  dim  portraits  of  the  dead  and 
living.  In  a  little  while  Norah  entered  and  came  to  me 
with  outstretched  hand. 

"We  will  not  light  the  lamp,"  she  said,  "the  firelight  is 
so  pleasant." 

"But  I  want  to  see  you,"  I  replied. 

She  had  seated  herself  upon  the  broad  stone  kerb. 
With  her  hand  she  stirred  the  logs ;  they  shot  into  a  clear 
white  flame.  Thus,  the  light  upon  her  face,  she  raised 
it  gravely  towards  mine.  It  spoke  to  me  with  fuller 
voice.  The  clear  grey  eyes  were  frank  and  steadfast  as 
ever,  but  shadow  had  passed  into  them,  deepening  them, 
illuminating  them. 

For  a  space  we  talked  of  our  two  selves,  our  trivial 
plans  and  doings. 

"Tom  left  something  to  you,"  said  Norah,  rising,  "not 
in  his  will,  that  was  only  a  few  lines.  He  told  me  to 
give  it  to  you,  with  his  love." 

She  brought  it  to  me.  It  was  the  picture  he  had  always 
treasured,  his  first  success;  a  child  looking  on  death; 
"The  Riddle"  he  had  named  it. 

We  spoke  of  him,  of  his  work,  which  since  had  come  to 
be  appraised  at  truer  value,  for  it  was  out  of  fashion 
while  he  lived. 


Paul   Finds  His  Way  423 

"Was  he  a  disappointed  man,  do  you  think?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  answered  Norah.  "I  am  sure  not.  He  was  too 
fond  of  his  work." 

"But  he  dreamt  of  becoming  a  second  Millet.  He 
confessed  it  to  me  once.     And  he  died  an  engraver." 

"But  they  were  good  engravings,"  smiled  Norah. 

"I  remember  a  favourite  saying  of  his,"  continued 
Norah,  after  a  pause;  "I  do  not  know  whether  it  was 
original  or  not.  The  stars  guide  us.  They  are  not  our 
goal.'  " 

"Ah,  yes,  we  aim  at  the  moon  and — hit  the  currant 
bush." 

"It  is  necessary  always  to  allow  for  deflection,"  laughed 
Norah.  "Apparently  it  takes  a  would-be  poet  to  write  a 
successful  comic  opera." 

"Ah,  you  do  not  understand!"  I  cried.  "It  was  not 
mere  ambition;  cap  and  bells  or  laurel  wreath!  that  is 
small  matter.  I  wanted  to  help.  The  world's  cry  of 
pain,  I  used  to  hear  it  as  a  boy.  I  hear  it  yet.  I  meant 
to  help.  They  that  are  heavy  laden.  I  hear  their  cry. 
They  cry  from  dawn  to  dawn  and  none  heed  them:  we 
pass  upon  the  other  side.  Man  and  woman,  child  and 
beast.  I  hear  their  dumb  cry  in  the  night.  The  child's 
sob  in  the  silence,  the  man's  fierce  curse  of  wrong.  The 
dog  beneath  the  vivisectbr's  knife,  the  overdriven  brute, 
the  creature  tortured  for  an  hour  that  a  gourmet  may 
enjoy  an  instant's  pleasure ;  they  cried  to  me.  The  wrong 
and  the  sorrow  and  the  pain,  the  long,  low,  endless  moan 
God's  ears  are  weary  of;  I  hear  it  day  and  night.  I 
thought  to  help." 

I  had  risen.  She  took  my  face  between  her  quiet,  cool 
hands. 

"What  do  we  know?  We  see  but  a  corner  of  the 
scheme.  This  fortress  of  laughter  that  a  few  of  you  have 
been  set  apart  to  guard — this  rally ing-point  for  all  the 
forces  of  joy  and  gladness!  how  do  you  know  it  may 
not  be  the  key  to  the  whole  battle !     It  is  far  removed 


424 


Paul  Kelver 


from  the  grand  charges  and  you  think  yourself  forgotten. 
Trust  your  leader,  be  true  to  your  post." 

I  looked  into  her  sweet  grey  eyes. 

"You  always  help  me,"  I  said. 

"Do  I  ?"  she  answered.     "I  am  so  glad." 

She  put  her  firm  white  hand  in  mine. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^^'""'SOTn 

Ki.-<--  ''    • ' 

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LD  21A-50m-4,'60                                    General  Library 
(A9562sl0)476B                                  University  of  California 

Berkeley 

ij. 


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9531)09 


9 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


